In all their travels, the young elves had never set their eyes on a settlement quite like Dansfurt. Situated in the far North-Eastern corner of Vanaheim, the capital city of Fulstein flourished as a quintessential blend of Asgaardian rural heritage and industrial urbanisation.
Its outskirts welcomed weary travellers with the scenic scapes of expansive golden fields of wheat and barley, interspersed with the traditional homesteads of local farmers. The plain countryside road wound and carved through the fenced lots before coming to a bridge crossing the trunk of the river Nex.
The warm limestone walls of the bridge and the concurrent city walls played a visual interlude between the natural vistas of the countryside and the cluttered skyline of the ghettos. Teeming with multistoried bare-brick nests, the slums were quite the peculiar marvel of modern architecture. In an attempt to accommodate the rapidly growing immigrant population, these buildings were hastily constructed and jammed between narrow alleyways.
Dense, grey and unkempt, the architectural framework of the southernmost district laid an upsetting foundation for its foreign residents. However, against all odds, the local community had turned this hopeless slum into a culturally rich and diverse haven.
Decorations and banners of all shapes and sizes hung across rooftops, window sills and doorframes, reflecting the neighbourhood’s multiethnic spirit. Families, friends and coworkers yammered and laughed in varying tongues, shifting momentarily to the common language to greet passersby. Concerned mothers, in all sorts of traditional attire, peered out of windows and balconies, yelling at their mischievous offspring who huddled and ran up the streets in their little gangs and posies.
Across the slums of Dansfurt, all races lived as one, with Naarmites, Mokish, Oyans and Firaz, embracing a common denominator of difference. It was here, where a foreigner was native, free to enjoy, exhibit and exchange their culture with their fellow man, outsider or not.
As Kashmir passed through the slums, the elven children gazed awestruck upon the disheveled metropolis. Their chaperoning hunter, however, fought his own internal battles. Fighting through stinging nose and waterlogged eyes, Viktor held back tears of nostalgia as he was brought back to his days as a young scoundrel in the Elysian suburbs.
What he wouldn’t give to go back to his old gang of misfits: Bishop, Garland, Corbin and Lenni. Well, at the very least, he still had Lenni. He couldn’t wait to see Lenni’s face when he came back with all the loot he picked from that priest. But then again, he could imagine Lenni giving him a hard time for flubbing the crow’s contract.
Not too far down the road, the scenery would change once again as the road came to an intersection overlooking a narrow canal. Across the stream, the architecture seemed distinctly different to that of the preceding district. Composed entirely of grey fireclay bricks and roofed with thick copper tiles, the robust buildings boasted ample ventilation. Their chimneys and smoke shafts pumped the air with heavy fog, while their drainage pipes poured thick industrial excrement into the canal.
Despite being a feat of modern engineering, the Dansfurt industrial district has been a subject of controversy among academics and the bourgeoisie. They believe the economic and resource benefits the sector brings to the city do not justify the negative impact it has had on the environment and local public health. Funnily enough, both the upper and working classes would dispute these opinions, turning a blind eye to future ramifications to ensure their short-term survival. Whenever the former would raise an appeal in court, they would be accordingly countered and overpowered in both numbers and influence.
Guilty of the greatest portion of long-term environmental harm was the Pvask Brewery. A producer of a regional favourite, often touted as the best in all the Asgardian Territories, the factory was regarded as a cultural treasure. It stood four stories high and almost a mile in length, looking over the canal in which it dumped copious amounts of refuse, turning it into a murky green slog.
The travellers would not tarry too long in the concrete swamps, crossing immediately into the next district just as they had passed the stream.
Emerging from a vaulted alleyway, the trio found themselves at the precipice of a wide-open area. Boundless and spruce, the Plaza of Petyr the First was one of the city’s chief landmarks and the heart of its administrative district. Sprawling with curious tourists and commuting bureaucrats, the square had done away with traditional market stalls in hopes of keeping a pristine image.
In their stead, the space was adorned with elevated garden blocks, floating like islands of green within an ocean of man-made fabrication. Overlooking them were small family-owned bakeries and coffee houses, where locals and travellers alike lounged to sip on their brews as they took in their views.
Erected in the centre of it all was a colossal bronze statue depicting the namesake of the square, Jarl Petyr Pvask the First. A powerful oligarch and the spiritual founder of Dansfurt, Petyr, secured his family a seat amongst the Northern Tribes. Originally of Mokish origin, the Pvask had been inducted into the confederacy as a reward for assisting the Asgardian troops navigate the marshes during The Great Hunt.
Towering above the proud figure, and lining the square’s perimeter were the picturesque giant buildings of the Dansfurt administrative district. About four to five stories tall and significantly commodious, their ornate exteriors were stuccoed in pastel hues and decorated in neo-baroque fashion. Large windows, oriels and corner towers ensured residents within these brick behemoths were supplied with air and sunlight throughout the daytime.
Most prominent of said buildings was the esteemed House of Justice, discernible by its rows of sturdy Greek columns and engraved pediment, which hoisted three flags. The first was the Fulstein coat of arms, featuring the ram, the second was the Vanaheim flag with its emblematic golden eagle, and the third was the plain light-blue flag denoting the Asgardian territories.
Ascending the marbled staircase and brushing past the opulent pillars, Viktor and the elves paced towards the doors to the esteemed building. As they approached the entrance, they were stopped by a guard in Asgaardian military regalia, wielding a wooden rifle.
“Halt!” commanded the guard,” No weapons allowed inside the premises. Please stow your armaments at the security desk. You can retrieve them on your way out.”
The security desk was further to the east, in a small gazebo perpendicular to the row of pillars. Eager to get their business done, the travellers made their way to the structure and stood before the caged window.
“I’d like to stow my weapons here,” stated Viktor, placing his gun and blade on the counter.
“Alright, would you like to stow your bags too?” asked the security officer.
“No.”
“Well, alright,” shrugged the officer before drawing a card with the number 06 and slipping it through the bars,” Just leave them right there, I’ll come take them.”
Heading back to the entrance again, they would be met by the same guard from earlier.
“Bags,” he says bluntly.
Viktor hands the guard the bags, which he searches thoroughly before returning.
“Ok,” concedes the guard, “state your purpose.”
“I am here for an address enquiry,” responds Viktor.
The guard makes way and gestures towards the reception desk across from him. Finally granted permission, the trio marches through the heavy red oak doors towards the stone-cut desk. There, they are met by the receptionist, a fair young woman dressed in a sleeveless light-blue gown that highlights her figure.
“How can I help you today?” she asks in her sweet, effeminate tone.
“Well,” Viktor holds the peak of his hat, collecting himself before repeating, “ I am here for an address enquiry.”
“You can get that from the registrar,” she replies in the same almost artificial tone,“ past the corner, down the hall, it should be the second door to your left.”
“Well, miss, I must thank you,” responded Viktor, grinning as he failed his attempts to flirt with the lady, “ truly, we’d been so lost. I thank you for your service.”
“Oh, it’s no big deal, sir,” she smiles cordially, revealing a set of pearly white teeth, “happy to help anytime.”
“Well, I’m happy to be helpe-” Viktor began, only to be interrupted by the sharp pain in his shins. Looking down, he saw the little elf culprit shake her head at him in disappointment.
“You little sh-” he sputters quietly at Fjalla, holding himself back as the receptionist’s giggles reminded him of his public setting.
“We’ll be going now,” he announces to the snickering receptionist before making his way over to the registrar's window.
“How can I help you, sir?” goes the registrar, this time a much less enthusiastic older woman in a similar outfit.
“Address enquiry,” replies Viktor, getting tired of the repetition.
“Permit 45,” goes the lady.
“Excuse me?” responds Viktor.
“You need Permit 45,” the lady explains.
“Well, I don’t have a Permit 45,” retorts a frustrated Viktor, “Where do I get one?”
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The lady directs him towards the second floor, where an officer at the permits desk should be able to assist him.
“How can I help?” asks the young officer.
“I am here for a Permit 45,” replies Viktor.
The officer draws a printed-out sheet of parchment, titled in heavy bold type with “INVOICE FOR PERMIT 45”. He instructs Viktor to take this new sheet to the cashier to pay the due amount and have it stamped.
“Where might that be now?” asks Viktor almost mockingly.
Unshaken by the rude tone, the officer tells him to head downstairs, pass the reception desk and find the window to the left.
Following suit, Viktor drags the children to the cashier as they sigh and moan in boredom. Before the clerk at the window could even speak, Viktor slipped the invoice through the bars, handing it to the older lady.
Skimming through it, they respond, “That will be a bezel and 3 quarters.”
Shaking his head in disapproval, Viktor scoffed at the meagre payment compared to the tedious process. Receiving the amount, the cashier stamps the invoice and returns it to Viktor.
Darting impatiently, Viktor takes the invoice back to the permit officer, receives the permit slip and returns to the registrar in a single breath. Panting, he flourishes his permit to the unenthused clerk, who yanks it from his grasp.
“What’s the name?” asks the lady.
“Huh?” responds a hazed Viktor, “Uh – his name. I think it was Michae–”
“ESKEL,” yells Fjalla, who was peering from behind the hunter’s frame,” his name is Mr Eskel.”
The clerk glances at the girl, then looks back to Viktor for confirmation.
Nodding, he confirms, “Eskel.”
“And how do you spell it?” the registrar continues.
“E-S-K-E-L,” spells Fjalla.
“And do you have a last name?” the lady inquires.
Fjalla shakes her head.
Getting up from her seat, the lady fetches a large, brown book from her cabinet and places it square on top of her desk. She flips through the pages, skimming the texts before she settles on an open volume. The lady then scoots over to her typewriter, where she hammers at the mechanical keys for around 3 minutes before producing a printed sheet of records.
Both Viktor and the elven children had watched the lady go to work in an odd sense of admiration, awestruck by her efficient burst of work that contradicted the highly inefficient framework that employed her.
“Here’s your enquiry,” she said, handing Viktor the piece of paper.
“Thank you,” replied Viktor, roused from hypnosis.
With the sun beginning its gentle descent to the west, the trio gathered their belongings and departed the premises, wasting no time to begin their search.
The sheet listed all the addresses of individuals with the first or last name Eskel in the Fulstein region, coming in at a surprisingly low count of twenty-five records. Viktor had taken his time to further clean up the list by crossing out addresses outside of Dansfurt and addresses of individuals with the last name Eskellson. The result of his filters significantly shrunk the list to 7 possible addresses, which he sorted into ascending order of their proximity to the square. If all went according to plan, Viktor was positive they would find the correct Mr Eskel before nightfall.
First on the list was Eskel Kruger, a criminal attorney who conceitedly listed his legal address under his office. Lucky for the travellers, it was but a brisk walk from the plaza, operating from within a third-floor rental in an administrative block.
Arriving at the studio, the trio’s luck would quickly run out as they were forced to queue at his secretary’s desk. Once their turn had come up, matters would suddenly get more difficult.
“Mr Eskel is busy right now,” explained the secretary, forcing a smile as she squinted at Viktor, “ but I am sure I can book you an appointment sometime next week.”
“Miss, I don’t have time for next week,” responds Viktor, “I need to see Mr Eskel now.”
“I can’t do that, sir. Mr Eskel has a long list of clients, as you can see,” she shakes her head and gestures to a bench crammed full of shady figures, “it would be simply unjust to let you have your consultation before them.”
Viktor scoffs before retorting, ” Lady, I don’t need no damned consultation!”
“Calm down, sir,” the secretary responds, looking alarmed as she reaches below her desk.
Aware of the lady’s distress, Viktor sighs, calming himself to avoid starting any trouble.
“Listen, I just want to show him this,” Viktor explains, producing the silver medallion from his satchel, “ can you not take it to him or something? Shouldn’t be too much of a hassle.”
The secretary glanced at the peculiar medallion, examining it for a moment before shaking her head.
“I am sorry, sir, but I can’t help you with that,” she says, feigning an empathetic expression, “ But I can jot you down in his schedule, and then you can show him anything you like!”
Realising they had little down and five other Mr Eskels to investigate, Viktor concedes, booking an appointment with the lawyer as a last-ditch effort before abandoning his lead.
Next up was Eskel Heikinnen, whose address indicated an apartment in the far eastern reaches of the district. Blazing through the alleyways atop Kashmir, the travellers would reach their new destination within minutes, standing at the doorway of the floor-level condo.
KNOCK! KNOCK!
“Go away!” yelled a feminine voice from within, her enunciation emphasising a prominent accent.
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
“I said, go away!” continued the voice. “Whatever you are selling, we don’t want it!”
KNOCK! KNOCK!
“I am here to see Mr Eskel!” yelled back Viktor as he gazed up at the pale yellow facade.
This time, there was no direct response; instead, the pitter-patter of bare feet came echoing towards the front wall before the door creaked open, producing a narrow gap. Peering through this gap was a frowning brown eye set directly at Viktor.
“What do you want from my Eskel?” asked the curious lady.
“Wanted to ask if he knew anything about this,” Viktor elaborated, producing the silver medallion once again.
The lady wasted no time staring at the medallion before she rudely responded, “My Eskel wears no jewellery. And that ugly thing certainly isn’t mine!”
Glancing beyond Viktor, she spotted the two kids loitering in his shadow. Frowning harder than before, she concluded that Viktor had some sort of hidden agenda.
“Oh,” the lady began, “I see what this is now!”
Her changing tone shocked Viktor.
“You tell whichever lying skank that sent you to leave my Eskel and me alone!” she sputtered, “we’ve got enough shit on our place.”
Viktor shook his head and stared back in disbelief at the lady's proposed sentiment.
“Now fuck off and never come back!” she yelled as she pulled the door back before slamming it shut, sending a gust of air across the street.
Surmising they’d visited the wrong Eskel, Viktor decided to continue his search elsewhere.
Third came Eskel Antman, a resident scholar at the Academy of Dansfurt which lay deep within the cultural district further to the East. His studio was set within the dormitories overlooking the Pavilion of Regional Arts, where an assortment of locally crafted sculptures were displayed for public review.
“DO NOT KNOCK. USE BELL,” spelt the bronze placard decorating the chamber door.
In rebellion, Viktor ignored the instructions and knocked on the hard spruce-wood frame.
KNOCk KNOCK
No response.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
No response
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
Again, no response. Defeated Viktor resorts to ringing the doorbell, which is activated by pressing a brass button connected to a runic contraption. Upon releasing the button, the mechanism played a unique, but obnoxious melody reminiscent of singing canaries. Almost instantly, the door swung open, revealing the proud figure that had seemingly waited for the travellers to concede and ring the bell.
This was the first of the Eskels that the travellers actually met during their long search. He was dwarfish and rotund, standing even shorter than Fjalla, albeit barely so. Beardless, he wore his greasy brown hair in a middle part and sported a pair of thick spectacles that warped his beady brown eyes. Perched against the door in his union suit, he boastfully stuck his snubby nose into the air.
“Well, well,” the scholar began to gloat, “ how do you like my can—”
“Recognise this?” Viktor promptly interrupted the self-flattering, sticking the medallion into the dwarf’s face.
The scholar was only briefly offended, as the gleaming silver pendant caught his attention. He gawed at its emblem and inscriptions, inching closely with his mouth agape.
“Well, yes,” claimed the little man, “I believe do.”
Relieved, Viktor grins at Brandt and Fjalla, who smile back, sharing his sense of accomplishment.
Gazing at Viktor, the scholar asks,” May I take a closer look at it?”
Viktor nods in agreement, handing the scholar the medallion. Scampering into his apartment, the small man gestured for the travellers to join him inside.
“Excuse the mess,” apologised the scholar, “ I don’t get many visitors.”
As Viktor waltzed in, it became quite clear why this was the case. The scholar’s dwelling was about as spacious as a nobleman’s closet, if not less. Preposterous to even be titled an apartment, its bed sat lofted above the working desk, which lay adjacent to the washing basin, arguably within the kitchen area. Piles of clothing, wooden containers and random tools were scattered across the living space and on top of the furniture, adding to the clutter and making the chambers a claustrophobe’s nightmare.
The scholar was standing at his desk, carefully studying the silver piece beneath a lamped magnifying instrument.
“Ooh, pure silver,” the scholar claimed, speaking to himself as his voice cracked with excitement, “and these inscriptions, Old Yormic.”
Viktor was beginning to feel suspicious, but decided to say nothing of it.
“Yes, yes, yes,” his voice crescendoed, “AHA!”
Viktor raised his eyebrow as the scholar turned to face him, shaking the medallion in his fingers.
“This right here. You see this tree?” he quizzed Viktor, smiling gleefully at his discovery. “It’s an old insignia of the Black Forest!”
Puzzled, Viktor furrows his eyebrows.
“This is a national artefact,” the scholar continued, “it must be at least a couple of hundred years old, may even be older than modern Asgard!”
The discovery seemed to fascinate the young elves, who gasped in excitement together. Viktor, however, was not quite impressed, as his fear had come to fruition, and they had once again found the wrong Eskel.
Frustrated, he rubs his temples and asks the scholar, “So you don’t actually know what this means?”
“Oh, well,” stutters the dwarfish man, “not really. But if you allow me more time.”
“I thought you’d recognised it!” scowls an irritated Viktor.
“I recognised its shape,” elaborated the scholar, shrinking further before the steaming hunter.
Viktor yanks the medallion back from the scholar and loudly declares, “ We’re god damn leaving!”
Muttering under his breath, he storms out of the chamber and down the hallway, followed by the confused children.
“Sir, please!” yelled the desperate scholar from his door, ”just one more look!
But Viktor was already gone.
Against Viktor’s wishes, the remaining four addresses pointed to locations within the slums to the South. Meaning that even if the “correct” Eskel existed, they were less likely to adopt a second elf. However, Viktor had to give it a shot; he’d invested too much into this journey and was not about to give up now.
Hues of honeyed gold turned to pale red, ultimately fading into the cold-toned darkness of night. By the time they’d reached their next address, the sun had already sunken past the horizon.
Eskel Laine, the fourth on their list, was a construction worker, and a dead one at that. His address was occupied by his widow, who wailed and wept at the mention of her late husband, drawing the attention of concerned locals.
The locals, though initially furious at the travellers, were kind enough to explain that the man had passed from an accident a few months ago. Once again, inefficient pipelines and poor documentation were the primary culprits behind the delayed reflection in the legal records.
Exhausted, hungry, and thwarted in both body and spirit, the traveller’s hopes soured into desperation as they considered calling it a night. Their minds couldn’t help but yearn for worldly comforts as they dreamt of warm bowls of nourishment, aptly cushioned beds and soothing long-drawn baths.
One more lead, one more lead was all they could afford tonight.
Their pick of the three remaining addresses belonged to Eskel Uronen, a vendor who sold books in the heart of the ghetto, of all places.
Constructed entirely of wood, the building was significantly shorter than its contemporaries at two stories high. An outlier in many senses, it was a standalone residential structure, cramped between rows of urban apartment complexes.
The ground-floor facade had a large glass pane framed by its door; it peered into the dimly lit store and was painted across with “Black Bear Books”. Hanging from the door was a printed sign spelling “OPEN”; an informal invitation that the travellers would not let up.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
The bronze chimes played a sharp, resonant tune, alerting the vendor to new visitors. Looking up from his book, the elderly man scanned travellers through deep blue eyes. His head peeked above the counter, displaying his aged Northern features. Thick albeit receding, his lush mane fell as white as winter snow, complementing a pair of stylish mutton-chops he sported below his rosy pale cheeks.
Casting an expressionless look, he welcomed his customers with a calm and silent nod.
Viktor nodded back, once again fetching the medallion from his satchel before placing it on the wooden counter.
“Recognise this?” Viktor inquires for the last time tonight.
Taking a quiet gander at the pendant, he shuts his book and places it on the floor by his feet. Observing the man rise from his seat, Viktor's jaw involuntarily lowered in awe. As the man’s head soared up towards the ceiling, it dragged behind it the strapping physique that one would attribute to a beast. The hulking figure boasted a pair of broad shoulders as wide as barn doors. His heavyset torso was accentuated by a sturdy trunk, as thick as an oak. And the musculature of his burly arms bulged beneath the sleeves of his checkered shirt like rolling hills.
Pinching the medallion in his meaty claws, he brings it closer to his temple.
“Oh, dear,” he whispers in a soothing, deep tone,” what has that old badger gone and done now?”
