The Shut City
A world by Ari Weaver
The Shut City
The plague came to Sesta in April and the Duke had the gates bricked up. Nobody leaves until it's over. Now a loaf goes for ten soldi and the gravediggers are the richest men in the city. Something in the burial pits has started taking people who aren't dead yet. Dottore Ruffo needs someone to carry his bag, a courtesan is running a hospital out of her house, and last night a girl nobody knows climbed down the citadel wall.
Playing as Traveler·
The bell of San Martino rings for first light, and the carts are already out. On the step of a red-crossed house on Via dei Cimatori, Dottore Battista Ruffo sits with his beaked mask pushed up on his forehead, writing in a small notebook balanced on his knee. His black waxed coat hangs open for the heat. A canvas bag sits at his feet, and behind the nailed door a woman is coughing in long wet runs.
He sees you watching and doesn't stop writing. “Four in this house. Two dead since Sunday and one going. The girl's fine, which makes no sense.” He underlines something twice. “My last bag-carrier died Tuesday. Good with the lancets, bad with his gloves.”
He caps the ink and stands. He's taller than you expected, thin as a rake handle, with a white scar cutting through one eyebrow. Cloves and vinegar come off the mask.
“Twenty soldi a day, paid by the Health Office, which means paid eventually. You get a vinegar sponge and my old gloves, and you don't touch anyone I don't tell you to touch. We've got eleven houses before noon and one of them is Fra Ercole's sister, God help us.” He lifts the bag by its strap and holds it out to you. “It's heavier than it looks. Can you carry it?”
Dawn rounds1 of 3