frigid jackson

It was a uniquely cold night for Kirkwall, with unkind winds and pummeling rain ushering the inhabitants indoors to hunker down by candles and hearths. But the City of Chains had many who didn’t have even matches to hold close with frigid fingers. Jackson was among them.

He shivered under an alcove to the right of the Chantry steps, fully ignored by anyone in Hightown on their way home. Besides, in the shadows, the rag-clad boy was easily invisible. He didn’t know better than to sit on the cold stone, lean his head against the wall and close his eyes to sleep, when his lips were blue. The Chantry had turned him away, but he couldn’t go back to Darktown; not with Athenril’s people down there still looking to recruit urchins like himself.