Chapter CLXIX – Then shall the lame man be ignored as an hart.

30th of Summer 5860
Aroghlie, State of Zon’guldac

The newly-mayored Whitebeard was walking the plank. The plank of the newly-repaired port of Aroghlie, extending from the coast to the Dark Sea that seemed to stretch infinitely, watched over by the slate-hewn lighthouse. A rocky place to be sure, barely fit to be a harbor, but in these mountainous regions of Gemeinplatz this was the best one got to have. The National Guard of Zon’guldac had been hard at work rebuilding the port up after the elves had looted and ruined the infrastructure.

It was a truly modest place – warehouses to store and process fish, a few shops specializing in naval supplies and the houses of fishers. Zon’guldac had never been given permission by the Empire to expand the port or conduct its own trade. Dwarven goods would be first taken overland to Hauptstadt, the Imperial capital, where they’d form the rare drops of tax revenue that the Imperial domain received through taxing goods coming in to the city. Of course, that was no longer the case. Whitebeard wondered where the Imperials got money from now that the dwarves weren’t trading with them.

In the distance were a couple of fishing boats going about today’s business, not a care in the world for what might be happening on the shore. Come apocalypse or come hell, these people had been fishing since time immemorial. They weren’t going to stop fishing just because the mainland was having a slave uprising/revolution. Perhaps fishermen were the true winners in the game of life.

Whitebeard wanted to win in that way too. She decided to take it easy for today, by experiencing the peak of cuisine this side of Gemeinplatz. “Fish-and-bread, please. Plus beer, if you have it.”

“Oh, where- oh, apologies, I couldn’t see you. Coming right up, miss.”

The staple of coastal Gemeinplatz got to work right in front of her: the humble fish-and-bread vendor. An old man whose hands were too shaky to hold a fishing rod but not too shaky to operate his grill and stall. Certainly not shaky when he received a groschen coin from Whitebeard. Money tends to steady a hand as it turned out. A few freshly-caught sardines on the grill, half a loaf of bread to toast, some herbs in between for flavor, and in a couple minutes Whitebeard had her treat.

Finding somewhere to sit down and rest near the port was quite easy. One certain Watanabe had pointed out a lack of public benches around Gemeinplatz, and so, there were now benches around the place. Having somewhere to sit down and rest had proven quite fashionable, even if people complained about newly-arrived and “rowdy” fugitives using the benches to sleep. In fact, Whitebeard was pretty sure that the guy a bench over was one of those, considering the dismal state of his clothes and the fact that he was napping on a bench of all places with a cloth pouch by his sides that must have contained his possessions.

“Oh well.” That was none of Whitebeard’s business. She wasn’t going to pour salt on the wound of some fugitive who probably had a much worse time than her. Her job as a mayor, in fact, was to do the opposite of that. Libertycave was getting lots of immigration from the rest of Gemeinplatz, while Aroghlie had lost a fair bit of its population during the siege and occupation. She’d rather encourage these fugitives to stay in the dwarven city to fill its emptied workshops.

Still, today Whitebeard was on holiday. She wasn’t going to worry about any of that while taking her seat on the bench, to watch the fishermen. “Perhaps I should take up fishing once this whole mess is done” she thought out loud. It was hard to just chill and relax during such chaotic times. There she was thinking about the future again, which led to thinking about the present that’d lead to the future, which led to thinking about the past that got them there… It was a sentiment shared by many in Gemeinplatz: the new order had come all of a sudden. Whether it was the Chancellor’s empire or the Commander-in-Chief’s republic.

Who knew whether it’d end up being better or worse? Right now, Whitebeard felt fine, but she knew that she’d have to go back to the mess that was going back on the rest of the realm eventually. Sure, the Commander-in-Chief had lofty ambitions and noble goals to speak of, but who knew. Such fiery men were prone to turning to tyrants whenever they got desperate. The Republic was being forged in fire, and as dwarves knew very well, too much fire would ruin what was being forged.

Then there was the opposite, the cadres of the Gileadites who thought that old man Brown was being too soft, those who claimed that he’d cool things down soon enough and establish himself simply as a king under another name. Some of the old nobility and burghers were still alive, for goodness’ sake, not to mention all the other people of Gemeinplatz who had profited from the slaves’ exploitation even if they didn’t own a slave directly… which meant that most of Gemeinplatz’s population would have to be purged to achieve proper justice. That’d amount to enacting a retaliatory genocide of sorts that’d basically leave Gemeinplatz barren of its populace, which some people thought was a good and just idea. Thankfully “some” wasn’t many.

Miles away, something was happening in Ancoire. Whitebeard wasn’t exactly sure what, she had just heard that a few refugees had arrived from the city to the Republic. Perhaps things were going to hell, perhaps it was just a few unfortunate people who had thrown their lot with the Republic… perhaps this fish sandwich was really tasty. Whitebeard knew that the last one was definitely true.

The weather was good, the fish was good, and that’s what mattered today on this side of Gemeinplatz.

“Long live the Republic!” To its health, Whitebeard raised her mug up high.