It had started to snow again. Dieter Fischer sat on a wooden chair in his small, rented apartment, listening to the running footfall and shouts coming from outside. He wore a bandage wrapped tightly around his eyes to alert others as to his blind condition, but his hearing was as keen as ever.
"They're building to a riot again," he said, rocking his head slightly towards the window.
"Let them," commented Falke Berger, a falconer, as he placed a fresh set of clothes on a side bench for the next day.
"Mm," replied the apparent blind beggar, Dieter, turning his head then towards Falke and changing the topic. "How did your meeting go? Did you get the pages printed up?"
"No," said Falke, darkly. "The fellow who owns the printing press altered the subject matter. He supports Tristan. A traitor. We can't distribute them now."
"Ah," said Dieter. "So that's why you've been scribbling away all hours of the night? Writing up your own flyers then?"
"If that's what it takes," replied Falke, leaning down to take his boots off, then sitting himself upon a stool to begin polishing them.
Dieter idly turned his head around the room as the conversation died a little. More shouts and hurried steps came from outside. "Will we go and join them?"
"No," said Falke.
"Why not?" asked Dieter.
"Because you're blind," stated Falke. "You wouldn't last ten minutes out there."
"Yeah, right," replied Dieter, with a hint of sarcasm and a grin. "We both know that I'm not really blind."
"Ja, but we also both know that I'm not really a falconer."
Both men smirked at each other, then turned their heads towards a third man who sat in a corner of the room on the edge of a bed. He was running a whetstone along the sharpened edge of a cutlass. He paused, looking up at the pair. Then went back to his sharpening.
"I don't think he wants us around anymore," said Falke.
"He never did want us around. We're here more out of necessity than desire," remarked Dieter.
"Ja," said Falke. "Well, not long now. He need not have to put up with us for much longer."
"Yes, hopefully," agreed Dieter.
The two men fell quiet and listened as the riot outside gained pace. Meanwhile, Christopher Black continued to sharpen his cutlass. "Hopefully," Chris muttered with the next stroke of the whetstone. No more disguises. No more fake identities, consisting of blind beggars and falconers. No more deathlings. No more Freya.
Chris carried on at his work as the rioters' shouts outside grew distant, the mob heading further down the street. Chris looked up. He was the only one in the room.
"They're building to a riot again," he said, rocking his head slightly towards the window.
"Let them," commented Falke Berger, a falconer, as he placed a fresh set of clothes on a side bench for the next day.
"Mm," replied the apparent blind beggar, Dieter, turning his head then towards Falke and changing the topic. "How did your meeting go? Did you get the pages printed up?"
"No," said Falke, darkly. "The fellow who owns the printing press altered the subject matter. He supports Tristan. A traitor. We can't distribute them now."
"Ah," said Dieter. "So that's why you've been scribbling away all hours of the night? Writing up your own flyers then?"
"If that's what it takes," replied Falke, leaning down to take his boots off, then sitting himself upon a stool to begin polishing them.
Dieter idly turned his head around the room as the conversation died a little. More shouts and hurried steps came from outside. "Will we go and join them?"
"No," said Falke.
"Why not?" asked Dieter.
"Because you're blind," stated Falke. "You wouldn't last ten minutes out there."
"Yeah, right," replied Dieter, with a hint of sarcasm and a grin. "We both know that I'm not really blind."
"Ja, but we also both know that I'm not really a falconer."
Both men smirked at each other, then turned their heads towards a third man who sat in a corner of the room on the edge of a bed. He was running a whetstone along the sharpened edge of a cutlass. He paused, looking up at the pair. Then went back to his sharpening.
"I don't think he wants us around anymore," said Falke.
"He never did want us around. We're here more out of necessity than desire," remarked Dieter.
"Ja," said Falke. "Well, not long now. He need not have to put up with us for much longer."
"Yes, hopefully," agreed Dieter.
The two men fell quiet and listened as the riot outside gained pace. Meanwhile, Christopher Black continued to sharpen his cutlass. "Hopefully," Chris muttered with the next stroke of the whetstone. No more disguises. No more fake identities, consisting of blind beggars and falconers. No more deathlings. No more Freya.
Chris carried on at his work as the rioters' shouts outside grew distant, the mob heading further down the street. Chris looked up. He was the only one in the room.
