Twin obsidian pillars flank an ancient lava roadway long ago smoothed over. Basalt carvings of animals and heroes long since past line the streets. In the distance a thin pyroclastic mist surrounds the high reaching parapets and towers of House Shrake. The bite of winter seems somehow held at bay within the city and tall red haired elves go about their business wearing thin silks or fine linen. From every direction hawkers assail weary travelers promising release from winter's icy grip at the local tavern. White robed elves walk as pairs in a loosely knit line, parting the crowd before them, their cowled heads bowed and their arms crossed. The streets wind within themselves like snakes. Switchbacks plague unexpecting travelers at every turn. Along one particular road, winding and turning in an attempt to loose the unwatchful, is a loud raucous sounding inn bearing the name "The Crooked Fox" in faded, tattered runes. On the top of the beaten and shoddy remains of a wagon, its wheels laying bent and broken with disuse, a red cloaked human cries at the top of his voice of the evil of the Deonian ragiem. He bellows of the enduring power that is the Narthaquien Empire. Passers by lower their heads and walk on quickly, avoiding the priest's goggle eyed gaze or glare at him in open anger at the insult to their own home. Around one particular corner, the natural road extends to the inner walls, broken as they are from the recent war, in the distance the Imperial Castle of Deo looms impressively. Home to, as can be heard in low, reverent tones from the surrounding citizenry, "Her Majesty Queen Alya, may she reign in peace and possess a hand of justice" A man stands at the entrance to the door of the Crooked Fox. Folds of fat show his inn's success, marking the standard of his service. His white apron marks him as the innkeeper, and his jovial attitude marks him as a good one. He looks at potential customers, crying aloud of his inn's reputable past, what it has to offer and his knowledge of the sites in the city beyond. |