For all Raf had no time for committees or whatever else they tried to call themselves, he had to admit the Administrative Council of Forgotten did their job well. Largely because they stayed within their self-imposed label – administration. They didn’t try to rule, or police, or judge. When one of the criminal gangs from Glasslight City tried to push their way in on several lucrative businesses in Forgotten, the Council simply laid out the guidelines and responsibilities.
And when said gang laughed in their faces and pissed on the documents, in the public Council room, no less, the calm-faced group of twelve watched without comment. The Glasslight gang learned the customs of Forgotten the hard way.
Three of those twelve impassive men and women were the leaders of Forgotten’s criminals, the rest led crafters’ guilds.
It’s a little difficult to be intimidating when your headquarters are half buried in rotting food, supplies are mysteriously unavailable, or ruinously expensive, and attempts at threats or blackmail are met with laughter and disappearing gang members – who would later reappear atop the piles of compost, useful for nothing but worm food.
They held out for a week before running back to the police and punishments of Glasslight. They’d lost fully a third of their members in the interim.
It’s not like Forgotten didn’t welcome those of Glasslight. Tourists with money to spend were indulged and fleeced. Those without money, or hope, were welcomed as one of their own. Forgotten was born of the oppressed.
The DNA of Stories 