IC: In the central square of Onu-Koro, patrolled by plodding policemen atop great crabs, tinged with the ashen waste of a hundred factories, swarmed by the packed throngs of Ussals as well as businessmen of all kinds--miners wearing their grimy gauntlets and dun sabatons, traders displaying their impeccable pauldrons and fine coats, manufacturers clad in drab Kanohi and colorless breastplates--droves of sensations mixed and conflicted with each other, trading perceiving blows as they struggled to catch the attention of passerby. The tang of steel combated the smell of soot. The pastel hues of fresh paint grappled with the dim glare of lightstones. And the desparate pleas for alms of an unemployed Matoran fought a losing battle against the tinny yells of a newspaper crier on the capacious space.
It was to the last of these crude brawls that an Ussal-rider directed his attention when he casually reached into his pocket and tossed out a hundred-widget piece.
The indigent being caught the currency with a hint of wonderment and examined the bit, not yet believing even though he saw. The unemployed did not last long in Onu-Koro. Most found work in the week following their firing due to the Koro's ever-growing need to sustain its immense expansion. However, in the cases of those unfit for work due to crippling injury, that typical week could multiply exponentially or even extend into infinity. This minority would generally seek medical help in the koro's hospital and perhaps a prosthetic. Following that, the injured would retrain so that they might re-enter the workforce. Although this aid generally allowed the unemployed in question to at last return to his or her occupation of choice with little difference, that time might last for months in which he or she might necessitate loans. The debt would then be paid back per the terms of the contract after working to earn the required capital. Therefore, the state of the moaning Onu-Matoran clutching his crutches was yet unenviable. But this mysterious stranger had given him what he recognized to be a legitimate hundred-widget piece without so much as one disparaging glance. The Matoran grinned and raised his head to scan the area for the magnanimous passerby, but he failed to see another Ussal of similar girth to that his benefactor had saddled. All of his best efforts failed to find his hero in the square.
That benefactor could be found, at this moment, making his way across the city in search of a certain place which it was his sworn duty to locate. He turned off the koro's Main Street into the smaller Taipu Boulevard, vaguely whistling some old Onu-Koronan tune regarding the wicked and their rest. Then the charitable man trundled along through the Artisan's Quarter until he came to Ussal Drive. With a quick glance to his map, he withdrew the tablet and kicked his Ussal's ribbed sides lightly, guiding his mount down the winding road. Coming to a particular three-room hut marked "35", he dismounted and tied his mount to the post on its front. The gentleman walked to the door and rapped once in the traditional greeting of the Ussalry. As soon as its occupant came to the door, he found himself greeted by an Onu-Matoran rendering a brief salute.
"Hello, Ussalman Aryll Vudigg," [color=#dda0dd;]Gyn Kirsug said with an effortless smile. [/color]"Would you care to join your fellows of Ussalry Light Cavalry Squadron One in our next mission?"
Edited by Iskandar, Aug 15 2013 - 12:58 PM.