Margie

You first met Margie in The Asphodel. In stark contrast to the tavernkeeper's unruffled demeanour, the girl appeared frantic and dishevelled, evidently in urgent need of help.

Perhaps she had just lost a day's earnings and faced a night of hunger; maybe she had just ended an unresolved dispute and was desperately seeking someone to stand up for her; or perhaps, like you, she was a lost outsider, uncertain of the path ahead.

At the time, you couldn't have known that this stranger had indeed lost a substantial sum of money, was indeed in trouble, and was truly an outsider like yourself. But her concerns weren't for personal gain, but for the livelihood of people who were essentially strangers to her.

In Icelake, the name "Margie" rarely comes to mind when life is smooth sailing. But when misfortune knocks at their door and the bitter winds of Icelake strip them of everything, that very name often becomes their last beacon of hope.

When these unfortunate souls receive coins, food, and winter clothing from Margie, their initial reactions often mirror those of anyone newly thrust into poverty, tinged with scepticism and caution. They question her motives: Is she expecting something in return, or simply indulging a lofty sense of moral superiority?

Invariably, they find no straightforward answers in Margie's light-hearted jests. However, as she consistently helps them navigate the fierce winters of Icelake, those suspicions gradually fade into irrelevance, discarded in the rubbish bin of their memories.

Margie doesn't care for grand speeches or sentimental declarations. When such occasions arise, she prefers to brush them off with a laugh and quickly change the subject.

Spring in Icelake is fleeting, which makes it all the more precious.

It's a time of unusually pleasant weather, with blossoming flowers, returning migratory birds, and emerald green butterflies fluttering by. If you miss out on such a lovely season due to relentless work, you'll heartbreakingly regret it once the long winter sets in.

So, Margie easily convinced herself that taking a rare break wouldn't hurt. Instead of bustling about as usual, she chose to lounge lazily on a bench, soaking up the warm spring sunshine.

As she drifted towards sleep, a conversation about a stray cat caught her ear.

"Look, Mom, it's licking my hand! It's so sad this little kitty doesn't have a home. Can we take it home?"

"Sweetheart, I can let you take this one home. But you know, there are so many stray cats and dogs out there. We can't possibly take care of them all, right? So, it can only happen once. Are you sure you want to take this one home?"

The dialogue tapered off, not because their conversation ended, but because Margie finally dozed off, torn between guilt and the rare pleasure of lazing around.

When she woke, the sun had nearly vanished behind the city walls. Just as she was about to rub her bleary eyes, she felt something furry resting on her hand.

She glanced down to see a tiny black kitten curled up beside her, blending into the night as the sun set, probably seeking warmth from her. Lifting the kitten gently, Margie chuckled at its peculiar appearance, a skinny little thing with long white eyebrows that made it look like a quirky old man, which was probably why the mother and child hadn't taken it home.

Wrapping the kitten in her coat, Margie walked through the slum, bathed in the glow of streetlights. She smiled and responded to greetings from the residents as she made her way back to her humble home. Cuddling the kitten in her arms, she smiled and murmured, "Everyone needs a bit of care now and then, whether it's a Sola, a Charon, or a kitten like you."

The kitten, looking simultaneously old and young, didn't understand her words but timidly accepted her caress, retracting its tiny claws.

After pondering for a moment, Margie playfully grabbed the kitten's flicking tail and kneaded it, giggling, "From now on, you're Blacktail... Ow!"

The next day, with three fresh scratches on her face, Margie resumed her tasks with a heavy heart. Even the warmth of Icelake's sun failed to lift her spirits. But everyone knew that by lunchtime, the cheerful Margie would return to brighten their day.

There are countless ways to get to know a city, but Margie's approach is notably distinctive.

A prescription, a box of paper stars, and a key, three seemingly unrelated items, each a puzzle piece with a hidden story. Like a skilled detective, you followed these clues to uncover truths, absorbing the tales behind them. By the time you returned to Margie with your findings and she welcomed you once more into the city's embrace, Icelake was no longer just a colourless map in your eyes. Those tales of love, regret, resentment, and hope echoing through Icelake's nooks had breathed life into the city, giving you a deeper, more personal understanding of it.

Even the most exalted nobles of Icelake, far removed from the struggles of ordinary life, have heard tales of the "Princess Rubbish Bin."

Rumour has it that she rules the city's rubbish bins from the shadows, scavenging like a greedy vulture, tirelessly hunting for discarded treasures to turn a profit.

It's also whispered that she has fostered a loyal following in the slums with her finds, possessing an information network rivalling that of the city's Escort.

Some even claim she could destabilise the city's order by revealing the secrets of the powerful that she has uncovered in her collection of refuse.

No one knows where these extravagant urban legends originated, nor does the protagonist of these tales care to find out. Each day, she diligently navigates the streets, rummaging through bins with a silent prayer for valuable finds. After redistributing the usable items to those in need, she sets up a stall to sell the surplus.

Well-dressed nobles often hurry past Margie's humble booth, occasionally murmuring sceptically and alarmedly about the legends of the "Princess Rubbish Bin."

Margie, perhaps due to her frequent interactions with rubbish bins, is exceptionally self-conscious about her personal hygiene. If someone jests by pinching their nose or waving their hand as if to dismiss an odour around her, she reacts like a startled animal, quickly scurrying into an unseen nook. For the following fortnight, the mean jester is unlikely to encounter her, only able to gauge her presence by the subtly enhanced scent of her perfume in the air.

If you don't want to hurt the feelings of a sensitive teenage girl, it's best to avoid such jokes.

Margie's day begins with her helmet securely fastened on her head.

She then whips out her trusty map and notebook, cross-referencing her knowledge of each rubbish bin with the whispers and observations she gathered the previous day to plan her route. Slinging a shovel over her shoulder and lugging a hessian sack, she sets off with a spring in her step, eager to discover what treasures the day holds.

As she hums along, passing by street corners, Aunt Sarah, who is usually busy with her laundry, waves with her red, frostbitten hand. Uncle Rett, the local carpenter, playfully scatters sawdust in the air like confetti as Margie passes, which always makes the florist's daughter across the street giggle at the sight...

This is Margie's daily routine, a rhythm of life she dearly loves. She always greets everyone she meets with a radiant smile.

However, there's one exception, when the carpenter's daughter, Kennice, mockingly curtsies and exclaims with a raised pitch, "Good day, your highness! May the god of dustbins forever bless you, our beloved princess!" Before Kennice can finish, she dashes off, spurred by the laughter of nearby adults, as Margie, once beaming, now sports a scowl and brandishes her sack as if ready to scoop up Kennice along with the day's refuse.

Rather than revel in the "Princess" moniker she inherited from her father, known as the "King of the Bins," Margie prefers her self-appointed title..."Lady Margie the reticent detective, a lone shadow-walker of the city."

Perhaps Kennice's "prayer" truly worked, for today Margie's finds are especially abundant: velvet curtains discarded by a noble, a nearly two-metre-tall bookshelf, and even a few silver coins forgotten in an old backpack's secret pocket. Furthermore, today's extraordinary finds include letters faintly scented with disinfectant and pages filled with complex equations, discovered in a rubbish bin outside a big house.

The detective in Margie perked up immediately. Her instincts told her that the owner of these items was no ordinary person. Though the complex formulas were beyond her understanding, the unsigned, unaddressed letters might just reveal untold secrets.

With a racing heart, Margie read through each letter:

"My dear daughter, if you're still alive, the sound of your laughter would truly fill this house instead of being just an echo in my ears..."

"It's not the notions of right or wrong that haunt me, but the irreversible nature of loss..."

"I turned away that girl's parents. I can't bear the thought of reliving that nightmare. I've decided to cease my research. Hayley, would you support my decision if you were here?"

"I hope I never live to regret this..."

The letters bore no signature, but Margie could already piece together the image of a reclusive doctor and the shadows of his past.

Rubbish bins hold more than just discarded items, they're a trove of stories and secrets, telling tales of sorrow and joy that reflect the myriad struggles and resilience of numerous lives. And yet, in this vast, confining city, people still strive to find a way to live on.

As night fell, Margie concluded her day's work, enriched with new finds, and began her journey home.

Kennice, the carpenter's daughter, was already waiting at the corner, clutching a small flower. Awkwardly, she apologised, "I'm sorry for calling you that name. I know you don't like it..."

Margie glanced up to see the florist's daughter through the window, watering plants, giving her a conspiratorial wink.

With a knowing smile, Margie patted Kennice on the shoulder, "Don't worry about it! After all, I was the one who didn't keep my promise to bring you a gift. But hey, let's blame the Rubbish Bin God for not smiling on me yesterday."

She then magically produced a cleaned-up old backpack from her sack, "Thanks to your prayer, I had great luck today! Here, this is the gift I promised you." She took the small orange flower from Kennice, "And I accept your apology! Now, we're good, huh?"

"Absolutely!" Kennice beamed, curtsying to Margie again, "Thank you, Miss Reticent Detective!"

Aside from her occasional visits to The Asphodel to see Ms Camilla, Margie is usually seen darting around Icelake on her own. At first, you presumed she was just another orphan with a past too painful to share, which is far from the truth.

During a casual chat one afternoon, Margie spoke to you about her father. Though she voiced frustration over how he'd saddled her with the responsibility of managing the city's rubbish bins while he vanished on mysterious errands, it was evident that, in their own unique ways, they had always supported and encouraged each other.

Perhaps that's why, in this perpetually cold city, Margie still manages to shine like a ray of sunshine, greeting each day with unwavering warmth.

Before Margie, the "Princess Rubbish Bin," assumed her reign, Icelake's garbage bins were under the control of her father, Old Martin, known as the "King of the Bins." It's said he hailed from a place called Anarchos, and after a gruelling journey that spanned months, he and his daughter finally arrived at the gates of Icelake.

When the scruffy Martin and young Margie appeared at the city gates, they looked every bit like a pair of wildlings fresh from the snowfields. Fortunately, Old Martin had taken care to prepare thoroughly, with all the necessary documents, including the travel permit, ready. Otherwise, they might have easily been mistaken for invading Filthoids and shot on sight.

As they waited in line to enter the city, they became the subject of pointing fingers and mocking laughter. But Martin remained unperturbed, letting the frost on his beard melt and drip down with each breath. Little Margie, far from being daunted, gazed back at the crowd with wide-eyed curiosity, taking in every detail with a fearless, inquisitive spirit. Faced with her candid stare, the gossipy onlookers gradually quieted, their smirks fading as they returned to the monotony of waiting.

None of them could have imagined the "empire" this father-daughter duo would go on to build in Icelake. And perhaps, they never would have guessed that the same curious, appraising look Margie gave them that day would later be directed at the city's refuse, with similarly keen interest.

Margie has a peculiar love for tugging on the tails of small animals. She even once tried it on a few Filthoids, which earned her a rare scolding from Old Martin. Feeling thoroughly wronged, Margie declared furiously that she wouldn't forgive him for his "complete lack of respect, understanding, and acceptance of her personal hobbies" until he grew a tail himself.

The feud eventually came to a close when Old Martin, in a display of theatrical absurdity, hopped around on a broomstick, claiming he'd sprouted a magical pine tree tail. Unable to keep a straight face, Margie launched into an impassioned speech titled "All Good Tails Are Furry Tails," which inadvertently broke their month-long silent confrontation and brought their hand-signal-only communication to an end.

No one truly knows why "Scavenger" Martin left his homeland, but many believe it was because he crossed a line that should never have been crossed, perhaps defying a powerful, unchallengeable "Patriarch." Whatever the reason, it must have been grave enough for Martin, who cherished his daughter above all else, to flee under the threat of gunfire, carrying young Margie through the seemingly endless snowfields in a desperate bid for survival.

This journey was likely the most remarkable achievement of Martin's life, not because no one had ever survived the desolate wilderness before, but because, in such brutal conditions, Martin managed to protect both himself and a child, who would typically be considered a burden in such harsh circumstances. Even among the resilient Charons, few could cross the frozen expanse with a young child in tow.

When the father and daughter finally reached Icelake, bringing an end to months of gruelling nomadic hardship, Martin was surprised and delighted to find that Margie had grown two centimetres taller than when they'd first set out. At that moment, tears welled up in his eyes.

Little Margie couldn't understand why her father, who had just excitedly measured her height moments before, suddenly bowed his head. No matter how much she teased him by calling him "silly old man," he wouldn't lift his gaze. Puzzled, she absent-mindedly brushed the lingering snow off his shoulder, only to notice with surprise that her usually playful, giddy father had begun to sprout a few strands of grey hair that no amount of brushing could remove.

Margie's desk is adorned with several old photographs. The most recent one is from her birthday last year, she isn't wearing her signature helmet yet, but her smile is unmistakable. In the oldest photo, a young Margie is seen peeking out from behind a ragged man, her hair messy and her nose red from the cold, her eyes brimming with innocence and curiosity.

But there is one photo where Margie stands out in a different light, there's no laughter, no wide-eyed wonder in this picture, only a mopey little girl who refuses to look at the camera. Though someone is reaching out to her, she sullenly stands alone in the corner of the frame, clutching a small toy as if it were the only thing she could trust.

Despite the blurry image, you can still make out that the small toy is the same cat charm Margie always carries with her. You once asked her the cat's name, and she told you it was "Plumpytail."

Margie once harboured deep disappointment towards Icelake. At that time, she had just witnessed the deep-seated hatred that Solas held for Charons and experienced firsthand the harsh conditions the Charon community was forced to endure. As a child, she couldn't understand why such relentless persecution persisted, why pain and hardship, meant to be avoided, were wielded as instruments of power. In Icelake, the privileged often demonstrated their status by inflicting misery on others, a practice Margie found utterly senseless.

During that time, Icelake seemed to Margie to be shrouded in a strange, purplish haze, a hue that reminded her of the numbing cold of frostbite.

When Margie first stood before the city gates of Icelake, she was completely captivated by its sheer enormity.

Her already blurry memories of her homeland, further clouded by a high fever, had faded into a vague haze. To her, the world had consisted solely of endless snowfields, extreme cold, predators and prey, starry skies, and the lonely warmth of a campfire shared with her father, her only companion.

But then Icelake, the destination her father had spoken of, abruptly appeared before her. At that moment, she could only describe her impression of the city in the simplest of terms: "Wow! What a big camp! So many people! So many new smells!"

Margie felt like a lost child who had finally found her tribe. She was neither scared nor nervous. Instead, an overwhelming sense of belonging took root in her heart, she realised, for the first time, that the world wasn't just her and her father. And when night fell, the city's transformation was nothing short of breathtaking for Margie. If a single campfire at night had once sufficed to warm her, the myriad lights twinkling from the city's windows would now surely bathe her in an unimaginable glow of warmth.

So, when her father asked if she wanted to live there, she nodded without hesitation. Shortly thereafter, a woman named Camilla provided a long list of "dos & don'ts and off-limit places within Icelake", which overwhelmed young Margie into drowsiness. When she was awakened by Camilla for the fourth time, she finally blurted her confusion out, "There weren't this many rules living on the snowfields! Is it more dangerous here than in the wild?"

Camilla and her father fell into a long, silent pause. Just as Margie was about to doze off again, her father gently patted her head and murmured, "Sweetie, perhaps you're right."

The second time Margie stood at the gates of Icelake, she was leaving. The towering city she once marvelled at had transformed in her eyes, it now resembled a silent, hulking beast, its gates a gaping maw. The joy and excitement of her initial visit had dissipated, replaced by a mix of confusion and disillusionment.

She couldn't understand why being impervious to the cold and having horns was enough to make her a target of scorn. She didn't understand why sneaking into the "inner city" out of curiosity could warrant harsh punishment. Most terrifyingly, everyone else seemed to accept this as normal, even the Sola children would unhesitatingly throw stones at her, as if she were an outright monster. It was then that Margie realised, belatedly, that what she had thought was her haven had never truly welcomed her.

Perhaps a child born of the snowfields is destined to return to the endless white.

Turning back, fighting the tears that threatened to fall, she embarked on a solitary adventure.

In Icelake, the placement of rubbish bins is never static. Margie frequently adjusts their locations, taking into account changes in weather, geography, and the shifting economic statuses of local residents. These strategic adjustments often enhance her chances of a fruitful haul.

Watching her enthusiastically map out the most profitable routes for the coming days reminds you of your days on Purgatorio Island, where you and Berenica would strategise on setting traps to outsmart quick and cunning prey.

Perhaps, for Margie, these rubbish bins are akin to urban "traps" set for her own unique hunt.

Legend has it, When the famed Princess Rubbish Bin was yet small,

Her gaze stretched eagerly beyond the towering city walls.

Oh, the inner sanctum of Icelake, a land so lush and verdant,

Our Princess Rubbish Bin, her wish to scale those formidable heights so adamant.

Yet strength eluded her tender age,

She questioned, grieved, rebelled, and raged!

She left the city, vowing never to return to the land that broke her heart,

She ran, she seethed, she fought, and from past memories, she would not part!

Filthoids vanished through her path!

But weariness called for sleep, and into the snowy embrace, she succumbed to sweet dreams.

Days passed by, maybe weeks, in that slumber accompanied by beasties.

She toiled on even in her dreams, helping those in need, the men and the living beings.

At last, the oblivious King of the Bins awoke from his neglect, realising his cherished daughter had fled,

He sought our Princess Rubbish Bin in the frosty vast, bringing her back to Icelake, a name echoing in her chest!..."The Ballad of Princess Rubbish Bin" by Buck the Playwright

Margie once reigned as the champion of the Icelake Snow Shoveling Contest for four consecutive years. Why didn't she make it to a fifth? Because that year, the other contestants conspired to elevate her to the judges' panel.

Cold, perpetually cold.

Margie didn't need to open her eyes to see the endless expanse of white stretching out before her once more, seemingly inescapable as the days and months passed, as if they were forever ensnared in its grasp.

The young Margie, still fuming over her disillusionment with Icelake, chose to trek deeper into the snowy wilderness, away from the city steeped in inequity. The deeper she ventured, the more her mind replayed scenes from her previous journey with her father, As they first stepped onto the icy terrain, young Margie would ask her father daily, "Are we there yet?"

Each time, Martin would respond with a number. Though young Margie lacked a tangible grasp of "distance," she understood that once the number dwindled to zero, their gruelling trek would conclude.

But the number didn't always diminish. When they got lost in the snow and ended up circling back to their previous campsite, the number went up. Injuries would also slow their progress, and when the harsh clime finally overcame Margie, rendering her too sick to stand, that number froze, just like everything else around them.

Days of fever turned Margie into a small ember of heat in a vast, freezing wilderness. In her delirium, dreams of summer and sunlight had long since faded, replaced by the relentless cold. Yet, during her moments of lucidity, she still whispered the same question, her voice growing fainter each time: "Are we there yet?"

But there was no answer, only silence and her father's trembling hand, brushing gently over her burning forehead.

During one particularly cold night, Margie dreamt of a star falling into her arms. Despite being dimmed by its descent, it still burned fiercely against her chill.

The next morning, as sunlight bathed her face, the fever had left her, and she felt surprisingly light and warm, almost as if she were still dreaming. Her father's crushing embrace and something warm and fluffy nestled in her arms confirmed the miracle, she had fully recovered.

The critter nestled in her arms would later become the inspiration for Plumpytail, the plush toy she would always carry with her. But back then, she was a scrawny little wildling, likely separated from her kin, her thin fur ill-equipped for the frost. Desperate for warmth, she had snuggled close to the only source of heat she could find, Margie's fevered body.

In the days that followed, their duo was joined by this little creature, cautious yet curious. She kept a watchful distance, only approaching when Margie laid out the best strips of jerky and stepped back. After vigorously sniffing the air, as if trying to make out all the odours, she would timidly snatch the offering...

A piercing birdcall snapped Margie back to reality, reminding her that she now trod a path opposite to the one she had taken with her father. She sighed, trying to figure out the travel distance for a number to count again, but she had no idea where to begin.

Where was she supposed to go? Margie didn't know. Old Martin's homeland wasn't home, and neither was Icelake, so where did she belong? Was it this endless expanse of snow?

The snow continued to fall, like confetti from the nobles' parades, settling softly on Margie's shoulders.

She lost track of time. The snow thickened, and her vision faded. She felt as if wrapped in a silvery blanket, the wind's lullaby coaxing her into the downy embrace of the snow beneath her.

Amidst this familiar chill, Margie's dreams were unexpectedly vibrant. She dreamed of laughter and melodies, of people whose faces bore no trace of the hardship they knew too well. They called her "Princess," "Sweetie," or "Little Detective." She saw Camilla, Kennice, and the florist's daughter, everyone had healthy, rosy cheeks, untouched by the biting wind and snow.

And at the very end, she saw Plumpytail, the little wildling she hadn't seen since leaving the snowfields. She had grown so much since then.

No, this was not a dream, Margie suddenly woke from her delirium. Plumpytail was real, because she appeared different from the little scrawny critter in her memories. She had become more nimble, hunting small creatures on the snowfields, even leaving a portion for Margie, who was still weak. Even the scraps she left behind after finishing a meal attracted plump birds, keeping them fed.

Margie's heart eased. Plumpytail had found her way as a predator, able not only to feed herself but also to sustain the weaker creatures of the snowfields. Most importantly, she had found her own way of living.

Margie remembered the dream she had, in which all the gaunt faces in the slums suddenly became healthy and cheerful. It was only a dream, but she suddenly realised what she had to do.

"Old Martin! I'm coming back!" she shouted into the wind, turning towards the direction from which she had come. "From today on, I'm going to scour every rubbish bin in Icelake with you!"

"Goodbye, Plumpytail!" she waved to the cat in the snow, then set off once more towards Icelake, a vast city filled with inequalities, but at the same time brimming with hopes and possibilities.