Provost of the Ranelle Plains

Chapter I: Provost

A biting wind swept the amalgam of different colored leaves into the air, which looked bold juxtaposed against the cold, grey autumn sky. I couldn't help but give a sigh of longing for the warmer weather of the Capitale.

As we trekked along the muddy dirt road, it took all of my strength of character not to curse aloud. What in the name of the Goddess did they put their taxes towards if not the roads?

"You know, this place isn't all too bad..." My partner, Nicolas, began. "Just think of all the possibilities, Léopold!"

I quirked an eyebrow at him and he pointed up to a nearby hill. A quaint country house was nestled right on top.

"Imagine a grist mill right there where that little abandoned shack is." He grinned.

"I don't think it's abandoned, Nicolas."

"Ah, pish posh! No one could live in such squalor!" He waved an arm at me dismissively, nearly knocking me in the head with his briefcase in doing so. "...Could they?"

Nicolas was one of those men who always claimed to have a grand vision of the future, despite being unable to see what's right in front of his own nose. He was an optimist and a dreamer, never a good mix for running a business, but he made up for it with his unmatched charisma. Why, he could sell a man the hat off his own head, and he always knew how to convince others to part with even their dearest possessions. I'm fairly certain he's been granted claims of ownership on many a firstborn by now.

My role in the business was much more taxing than being a simple salesman. I was in charge of...well, just about everything. Although we had been making a good living off of revenues from owning theaters and cafes, I felt it was time to broaden our horizons, which was why we'd come to Marquess.

We were going to purchase ownership of the town.

A light rain began to fall, making the air fill with the distinct scent of riverbank mud and fallen maple leaves. Nicolas and I opened the folding umbrellas we'd brought with us from the Capitale, while the townsfolk ducked under porches like roaches fleeing a candle's light.

A woman, a housewife perhaps, donning a gingham apron and off-white bonnet hurried out of the quaint hilltop cottage to bring in the laundry, which had been strung up on a line in the garden to dry in the pale autumn sunlight. Or perhaps it was simply there to sway in the gentle breeze and look typical of a country bumpkin.

She stumbled and fumbled as she hurried to unclip her linens from the line while Nicolas passed her by without a word. I stopped walking across from her garden gate and paused to watch her work, noticing the way she tried to keep the clothing from getting wet by shielding the basket with her body.

Such dedication, such self-sacrifice. I was somewhat awed by the tenacity this woman exuded to even the most commonplace of trifles. An admirable quality of Fallet, to be sure. It was quite dissimilar to the attitudes of Revés, where meager tasks were passed off to the nearest servant or, for those that must be done in person, always completed with a rushed yet lackadaisical sense of boredom. That's just city life, I suppose.

Just as the woman had finally rounded up all her clothing into the big wicker basket, she turned to hurry inside and slipped on the wet grass. The basket tumbled from her hands, spilling her clean clothes that she had worked so hard to keep dry directly into a rather large puddle of mud. She slumped her shoulders and knelt down in the mud, which stained the front of her rain-soaked dress, and began to recollect her garments at a slow, tired pace. For whatever reason, perhaps the sad comparison of her dedication to her defeat, I was overcome with a sense of pity and pushed open her garden gate. She looked up at me in surprise as I silently held out my umbrella over her.