Day 2: Back Alley of Frankenberg
Ah, that alley? Best keep your boots dry and your mouth shut if you wander there. Used to be a shortcut behind the tavern — quiet, smelled of yeast and old wood — till the baron lost his patience with the merchant and the innkeep. Third time they missed their tax, he said enough was enough.
So he had his men drag out the spoiled barrels from the cellar, stacked ’em high, and fenced the whole place in with rot. Called it justice, the bastard. Said those barrels were worth more than the men who owed him. Broke one, and you’d find yourself strapped to that oak beam by the tavern — the Schandbalken, he calls it — where the ravens learn your name before nightfall.
Folks still hear laughter from that alley after sundown. Not the kind that warms you, mind — the kind that listens back.
