a little drabble.

To be born with a silver spoon in one’s mouth is a luxury Dorian Hoizer had not been introduced to early in life. Nor were there many luxuries at all in his life, truthfully. From a young age, he had to learn and perfect the hazardous art of theft, swindling, and maintaining a good reputation of both being a rather gentle helper to those who needed it ( such as the smaller elven child who’d managed to get their ivory-colored hair tangled up in a tree ) to the more dominant, manipulative and resentful mountebank who was slowly climbing the social hierarchy those of the back-alleys knew him as. One of those people who just so happened to be a back alley dweller was a childhood friend by the name of Na’Drim, or as he simply preferred to be called, Drim. 

 Drim had lived a relatively repetitive life, one filled with hard labor, heartache, and yearning. Always staring at the aristocrats of their society when they passed through their village, at least twice a month, eyes full of longing for their frivolous and careless life, without worry when it came to spending. Oh, how amazing that would be, the halfling tended to think. To be frivolous with cash without worrying about eating the next day? Seems like a dream. Jealousy pounded through his veins at the thought. 

The two consistently ran into each other, always threatening each other with violence. Sometimes it ended with them both bruised and bloodied having followed through with the threats, wrestling each other in a way resembling the way they did as kids, just without the playful aspect. And today happened to be the day they ran into each other that would end with only one of them walking away. . .

A loud grunt left echoes throughout the alley as they collided. A booming voice called out. “Watch where you’re going, idiot! One of these days I’m gonna. . I don’t know! But it’s gonna be ugly.” 

Snickering, Dorian shook his head. He couldn’t believe they were going to go through this again. A quick argument, a beatdown, and a hobble away. “You always talk the talk but never walk the walk. How about you prove it to me, Na’Drim? Then I’ll believe you.” With a tsk, he began walking around the other, eyeing him mercilessly. 

“Shut up! I know what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna take your place. I’ll social climb like you and take your place. But I gotta get rid of you first, you dumb-” Drim was cut off by a fist colliding with his jaw, then one shooting upwards. Hands flew to cup his face, a bruise already forming. “Damn you! You just signed your death certificate, Dorian!” 

Lunging forwards, Dorian and Na’ Drim tumbled in a blur of colliding limbs. Heads slammed against the concrete occasionally, that was, until the collision of Drim’s head. Over and over again, the loud thud and thump of his head repeatedly hit the cement. Soon there was no flurry of limbs. There was no screaming, there was no crying. Just one crack and spilling of crimson liquid.  Na’ Drim had lost his life, and Dorian had lost his only constant in life.

Pausing at the sight of red, and the thick scent of iron, he realized maybe, just maybe, he went too far this time. But what was too far for a back-alley dweller, anyways? Maybe killing a man, but who was he to say or have a moral high ground over his actions? Shouldn’t he be planning on hiding this? Dispose of the body, start a new life, the whole shebang? No, he thought, they both were poor and the police only cared about the upper class and the upper class alone. So, for now, he’d be stuck, letting the corpse live, rot, and fester in his mind.

But as blood flows, life goes on. And there was no way around that. Eventually, this whole ordeal would be water under the bridge in their society or another pebble in an overflowing dish.