Day 1 Lamp posts

“Within the heart of every man there dwells a beast named rage. It is a bitter necessity that on occasion the hound must be permitted to slip its leash and vent itself upon the world, lest too long constrained it takes to sharpening its claws upon the walls of its lair.”

After careful consideration of the facts Mr Ira had come to the conclusion that he disliked the newly installed street lights. He did not care for the way in which the polished metallic posts erupted from the street at precise intervals, the cobble stones torn up and cast aside in the engineer’s unseemly rush to meet their exacting deadlines for completion, leaving irregular openings of unfinished stone in the street. It left him with the impression that, rather than being constructed, the shafts had simply erupted from the ground fully formed scattering carefully interlocked stone with unnatural force. The new intruding upon the old with careless haste.

Nor did he care for the Briarwood Cartel crest set into the metal shafts at exactly eye level. A reminder, every few paces, of the ruling family’s generosity in providing this grand gift to the city. A reminder, carved deep into metal surfaces, of the family’s newly won authority and position. Idly he wondered if the choice to leave the crest undecorated on the plain metal surface was a deliberate one. An attempt to tie the perception of the cartel to the strength and permanence of steel. But that seemed unlikely to him it was excessively subtle for their thinking. Doubtless in due course someone would be along to pain the design in garish and eye catching reds and greens so there was no chance of passing eyes slipping over it. In any case it was a reminder that he, along with a great many of Lethe’s citizenry, could do without.

Lastly there was the horrible crowning glory of each column. As he considered them a thought occurred and Mr Ira reached into his thick woollen coat and removed his pocket watch glancing at its face. He slowed his pace gradually coasting to a stop in the doorway of small butchers shop, already closed for business, and turning to watch the street. Back resting against the painted store front he watched as the sun began to set. At four twenty three pm exactly de fancied he heard a single audible click resounding from dozens of devices as the timing mechanisms engaged simultaneously and the aetheric cage atop each lamp post sprang into life. The delicate looking assembly of copper strands, encased behind thick glass, flickered for a moment as probing fingers of energy coursed over them before stabbing inwards and igniting. A shimmering sphere of aetheric energy hung suspended within its copper latticework. A searingly bright light spilled out into the street still tinged with its original slightly greenish hue despite the filter of the treated glass.

He looked left and right at the dozen lamps he could see before the curve of the narrow street carried them out of view behind the tall stone buildings. But he could easily imagine thousands more erupting into life across the city at exactly the same moment and de felt his upper lip curl into a sneer of distaste at the excess of it.
Aether.
Its harvest, management and manipulation formed the corner stone of the cartels new found power and here for all to see was a display of that power. Illuminating every corner of the city’s streets in its sickly light. Ever since the Briarwoods claimed authority over the council work crews had been at a feverish pace on their grand public works project. Even here, in the meat packing district, far from the civilised centres of government, the costly lamps had been installed carrying with them their makers mark as though to say that no part of Lethe was beyond the reach of its new masters. It was as though they were striving to stamp their name on the city as a whole not unlike a child scrawling its name on a favoured toy.

He rather doubted they had considered the bitter irony the lamps represented to the citizens at large. After all the curfew which had been imposed with the Briarwoods turbulent rise to power was still in effect. Ira had heard it said that, quietly and away from prying ears, that the Cartels leader doubtless had a wonderful view from their towers of their brightly lit and utterly empty city streets.

All the politics and symbolism and waste of it was bad enough but in addition to it all that, and perhaps most irritating to Ira, the Aether light was overly bright and painful to the eyes. Perhaps it was an intentional part of the design? Perhaps the Examplar enjoyed the idea of his subject walking the street with eyes humbly downcast? Perhaps he was over thinking matters.

Reluctantly he pulled himself from the comfortable shadows of the shops doorway and stepped, blinking owlishly, into the harsh greenish light and set off again. He gave a great weary sigh harnessing the full potential of his deep set chest to wordlessly express his dissatisfaction with the politics of it all and perhaps existence in general but certainly and most specifically with the new street lights and all they represented to him. He disliked them in form and function and in all they symbolically represented for the future of this city. But there was little to be done about it this evening. He pulled the collar of his coat up and his woollen coat down over his closely shaven head against the cold of the encroaching night and reluctantly resolved for the hundredth time to leave thoughts of politics to his betters. He had work to do and little time left in which to do it. He quickened his pace, heavily booted feet thumping on the cobble stones in a steady rhythm. Weaving, ever so slightly, in an attempt to stay out of the light.

Ira arrived at the tavern and took a moment before entering. He straightened his back and rolled his shoulders eliciting a few pops and clicks that he could swear would have been audible to any passer-by had the street not been devoid of life. Drawing a deep breath through his nose he reached out and pushed open the heavy door feeling a wave of heat wash over him as he clambered down a short flight of stairs into the barroom. The ceilings was low set and as with his previous visits Ira had to fight the urge to stoop down, his scalp tingling as his skin sensed proximity to the plaster ceiling. He paused in the entry way as his eyes adjusted to the flickering yellow gas light, internally he savours the proper light yellow and buttery, as he removed his wool cap and ran a hand back over his shaven head. The moment of comfort properly savoured he advanced on the bar and the bartender who openly scowled his disapproval at his approach.

“Ello Francis” Ira rumbled pitching his voice low and base “any word for me yet?”

Francis folded his thick arms across his generously proportioned bust and shook his head sharply sending his jowls jiggling “I’ve nothing for you. You’ve been told, neither you nor your questions are welcome here. Now find the door and fuck off!”

Ira marshalled a slight smile on his face stared unblinkingly into Francis’s eyes and twitched a muscle beneath his right eye in a slight spasming facial tick. He was a pleased with the expression having practised it in a mirror for an afternoon. Just faintly suggestive of suppressed violence without being outwardly threatening. It had served him well.

Francis broke eye contact.

“That’s what I like about you this place Francis” Ira said still staring intently at his face “The staffs welcoming and inviting demeanour. It warms my heart. I’ll be at my table if you change your mind.”

The barman bristles as Ira moves away but still his eyes remain averted. He crosses to the back of the room feeling the eyes of the other patrons on his back and his skin crawls slightly. He can taste the suppressed aggression in the air and he feels a shiver run down his back. He reaches the booth at the back and turns back to look over the room seeing only patrons busying themselves with their drinks and in close conversation. He pursed his lips thoughtfully and sat with his back to the walls and the entrance in sight. He hooks a chair with one foot and pulls it closer crossing his legs and setting his boots atop it and folding his hands across the small mound of his belly.

The slight woman sitting opposite him fidgeted irritably.

“You. Are. Late” she said carefully pronouncing each word with emphasis her voice an insistent whisper

Ira watched her from the corner of his eye but did not turn to face her when he responded “I was unavoidably detained.”

She raised an eyebrow in a quizzical fashion glancing around the room quickly “Trouble with the Guard? If so we can…”

He waved one hand languidly in a dismissive gesture “No nothing to worry about my pace was merely slowed by the crushing weight of ennui but I press on like a good little soldier.”

She stared at him with blankly for a moment before rolling her eyes “Not the street lamps again Mr Ira please I don’t have the strength.”