@ChaosArcher
@malsetkai
The City of Dusk was, despite its name and location, rather bright this afternoon–not to say the sun was shining, but the sky was a few fractions lighter, the cloud cover a few feet thinner, the air a few degrees warmer, than was usual for the otherwise shadowed damp of the Foxfire Bramble. A few local wives were chatting on about it as they went on their way to the market (it was the time of year when the foreign fruit vendor came into town, and they were desperate to get their hands on the produce of the Viridian Labyrinth). Despite the small change in weather, the denizens of the city were as busy as ever, hustling, bustling, running to-and-fro through the winding streets of Midtown.
The high gothic gates to the city were open this afternoon, a steady stream of merchants, travellers, vendors all pushing their way inside. Some had begun to hawk their wares before they had even entered the city. More than likely, they would find themselves in an audience with the Lady Hilbraunt before the day is over, treated to a reprimand and a speech on the proper ways of business within the high stone walls.
In the slums, however, the heat had riled the gutters into setting up a great stench–old water, mildew, and the rest of the city's refuse. Most of those who lived there had hid themselves away in their ramshackle apartments and hiding holes, or slunk through from awning to awning, alcove to alcove in their ragged cloaks. Every so often, one would stop and peer up towards Midtown, listening to the noise of the community bouncing off the worn granite of the poor district.
Matron Abignalia sat on the steps to the abbey she had tended for the last several years, watching several young children playing in the gardens–or what would be gardens, if it had green grass or blooming roses. The unnamed abbey-turned-orphanage saw new faces every day; children came and went, dropped on her doorstep one day and disappearing back into the slums when they were too old for a cot tucked away in the back. Very few ever returned.
The matron picked up her sewing, quick claws nimbly threading the needle and setting to work, enjoying the momentary heat of the day. Perhaps she could visit her sister later, when the children had been rounded up and brought inside.
From around the side of the abbey wandered a familiar cloaked figure: Tanzani. He had been sleeping in the shed, a bed in exchange for work around the property. A small fix there, lifting a crate here. The children avoided him, and the matron distrusted him, for he never spoke of his history, or why he spent the nights wandering the slums, or what, exactly, it was he said he was searching for.
He caught the eyes of the three playing in the garden, prompting squeals of alarm and delight and sending the trio scrabbling past the garden wall and into the streets before the matron could rise and call them back.
@malsetkai
The City of Dusk was, despite its name and location, rather bright this afternoon–not to say the sun was shining, but the sky was a few fractions lighter, the cloud cover a few feet thinner, the air a few degrees warmer, than was usual for the otherwise shadowed damp of the Foxfire Bramble. A few local wives were chatting on about it as they went on their way to the market (it was the time of year when the foreign fruit vendor came into town, and they were desperate to get their hands on the produce of the Viridian Labyrinth). Despite the small change in weather, the denizens of the city were as busy as ever, hustling, bustling, running to-and-fro through the winding streets of Midtown.
The high gothic gates to the city were open this afternoon, a steady stream of merchants, travellers, vendors all pushing their way inside. Some had begun to hawk their wares before they had even entered the city. More than likely, they would find themselves in an audience with the Lady Hilbraunt before the day is over, treated to a reprimand and a speech on the proper ways of business within the high stone walls.
In the slums, however, the heat had riled the gutters into setting up a great stench–old water, mildew, and the rest of the city's refuse. Most of those who lived there had hid themselves away in their ramshackle apartments and hiding holes, or slunk through from awning to awning, alcove to alcove in their ragged cloaks. Every so often, one would stop and peer up towards Midtown, listening to the noise of the community bouncing off the worn granite of the poor district.
Matron Abignalia sat on the steps to the abbey she had tended for the last several years, watching several young children playing in the gardens–or what would be gardens, if it had green grass or blooming roses. The unnamed abbey-turned-orphanage saw new faces every day; children came and went, dropped on her doorstep one day and disappearing back into the slums when they were too old for a cot tucked away in the back. Very few ever returned.
The matron picked up her sewing, quick claws nimbly threading the needle and setting to work, enjoying the momentary heat of the day. Perhaps she could visit her sister later, when the children had been rounded up and brought inside.
From around the side of the abbey wandered a familiar cloaked figure: Tanzani. He had been sleeping in the shed, a bed in exchange for work around the property. A small fix there, lifting a crate here. The children avoided him, and the matron distrusted him, for he never spoke of his history, or why he spent the nights wandering the slums, or what, exactly, it was he said he was searching for.
He caught the eyes of the three playing in the garden, prompting squeals of alarm and delight and sending the trio scrabbling past the garden wall and into the streets before the matron could rise and call them back.
