Scothmpson arrived at work on time, thankfully. He was sure his employers, the Grassi Family, would be very cross with him if he were to be late. He would probably be fired, and then what would his family do? The life of a Polisher was not a wealthy one. He would have to search up and down for another job, a job that would likely not pay nearly as well. Word would travel around, and the Hoying name would become nothing more than dirt. The last thing he wanted was to be the cause of his family being evicted from their house or, worse, the reason their futures were destroyed.
Mitchane waved Kevelle goodbye as the older man left and made his way deeper into his grand house. He was going to grab a snack before lunch. When he entered the kitchen, however, he stopped abruptly. There was a Polisher at work before him. Usually, Mitchane would demand the Polisher leave, not worthy of being in his presence. He also did not want to contaminate himself with their dirty hands.
This time was different. This time, Mitchane was captivated by the blonde man before him. The Polisher's back was facing him, but the broad shoulders and strong muscles instantly had Mitchane's thoughts traveling down a sensual route. Mitchane coughed daintily to try and prevent himself from becoming more aroused by this being of lesser worth.
The man turned around. He appeared to be around Mitchane's age. Ocean blue eyes met chocolate brown ones, and an instant attraction was formed.
Scothmpson could not take his eyes off of the ethereal being before him. When he had heard the cough, he had quickly turned around in shock. He wasn't expecting to find a petite, beautiful man standing in the kitchen with him. "I'm sorry. Did you need something?"
Mitchane raised an eyebrow. Did the man not know who he was? "Yes, I was just going to grab some pretzels and a water. My parents probably doesn't want me to ruin my appetite before dinner, but even they don't know all of the things that go on in their home."
Scothmpson's eyes widened. It was his home? This man was a Grassi? "Oh, Mr. Grassi, please excuse my rudeness. I will get what you desire right away."
Mitchane smiled at how cute the man was. "No, it's fine. I'll get them. You can continue working."
Scothmpson paused in his search. "Are you certain? I would be more than happy to serve you."
The brunette grabbed what he had come for and began making his way out. "It was nice meeting you..."
"My name is Scothmpson, sir."
"I'm Mitchane. I'll see you around, Scothmpson."
>>>
Sighing, Kierstaer pushed a stray strand of hair away from her brow. The heat of the factory was uncomfortable at best, but today it was down-right sweltering. The sun had been shining when she left Scothmpson's house, but the young woman had not thought much about the temperature. It was trivial to her. She did not work at a Farm; it was not necessary for her to keep track of the weather.
"Get back to work, Polisher!" a tall, broad man yelled at her.
She bowed her head in submissions and resumed her task of sorting the materials before her into two lines. She would rather be anywhere else at the moment, but then again, where would she go if she had the chance? Her mother and younger sister were both at work. The house would be tightly locked, and she didn't have a key. They had to keep the house locked because of the Fiends, mainly the Riots.
Kierstaer's thoughts traveled back in time. She had met a Riot before, a long time ago. She had been a small child then, running around without worries and cares. She had not realized that her adventures had taken her so far from home until she had stumbled upon a group of children much older than herself. She could remember the tattered and ragged clothes hanging off of their forms. The group was made up of males, and tears had clouded her eyes as they began taunting her. She had tried to run but was pushed to the ground.
Suddenly, another boy appeared, this one around the same age as the older ones. He, however, did not join in with the other boys' jeers. He had leveled a punch right in the leader's face. Harsh words were exchanged as well as more physical altercations.
When the dust had settled, both figuratively and literally as the ground beneath her was nothing but dirt, only the boy that had seemingly defended her was standing. The others were rolling around the ground, holding bloody noses and broken arms. The larger boy turned around and offered a bloody hand.
She had taken it, not an ounce of fear or hesitation in her being. To this day, she could still remember the feeling of the huge hand encompassing her own and the hazel eyes of her savior.
>>>
Kevelle excused himself from Mitchane's presence. The older male often had a difficult time maintaining patience in the presence of his rash, naïve friend. Kevelle understood that Mitchane lived a very sheltered life. His parents did not require him to know of the rest of society like Kevelle's parents did. Mitchane knew hardly anything of politics nor economics. Frankly, Kevelle did not think the young man cared at all. As long as he was adorned in expensive clothes and waited on every second of the day, Mitchane was happy.
Kevelle could not fault him for that. He, himself, would admit to enjoying the act of wearing nice, extravagant clothes. He did not have to worry about finances or finding a job. If he chose to work, he could do so. His father was a highly respected doctor, and his mother was a skilled artist whose works were posted in multiple Council buildings. Yes, Kevelle could chose to work, but he would be limited in his options. If it were his dream to pursue a career in teaching, he doubted the choice would be supported. Teachers were Polishers. It was as simple as that. You had to conform to your role or risk getting into trouble with the Council.
Now, Kevelle would be one of the first to admit, not openly of course, that the Council was a rather twisted ruling body. The caste system established in their world was a cruel one, heartless in its limits and unforgiving in its consequences. It repressed people, the opposite of what Kevelle felt should be happening.
But he would not say anything. He was a Wisher, after all.
>>>
Avriktael threw the mass into the rushing river below. He wiped his hands on his knees, the red dripping from them being absorbed by the thick material covering the skin there. He frowned slightly at the thought of making his sister do the laundry again, but the guilt evaporated into the cool, evening air. He fixed his ponytail and began making his way back to his sister. His dear sister, Estolei. How he loved her. He wished he could do better by her. But, he learned a long time ago that wishing never accomplished anything.
To live the life of a Riot, one had to fight. One had to kill. Emotions were weaknesses and could not be shown. You either ruled or were ruled over. Luckily, Avriktael ruled these lands. They were his own. He was the Dark King of this forbidden wasteland, the Outskirst. His black heart was widely known, and many trembled in fear at his name, with good reason. Avriktael was less of a human being and more of a demon. What he said, went, and those who dared to defy him were dealt with by his own hands.
He grabbed the bag stuffed with necessities and did not take a second glance at the body of the dead man floating behind him. Murder wasn't something you glanced at twice.
