(Anyone is welcome to join in, sorry about the word wall! I would prefer more than one word postings if that is manageable but not in the least expecting something as long as the opening.
The setting is the Ivory City, a great gem of a trade hub built on the skeletal remains of a massive long dead beast. One of the few places a college of magic can be found in the eastern continent of a late renaissance/ light steampunk style fantasy world.
It is a round wheel and spokes design with as many 'quarters' and districts as a person could imagine. Taking hours to get from one side to the other. If a person can think of something it is likely to be found within the great metropolises ' massive walls. High class live separated from low as best they can but here there is no actual way to filter oneself from the churning populous unless they have managed to find a seat with the High Mage Council of Karak. These reclusive old wizards live in a literal ivory tower in the center of the massive bay, carved from the tusk of the same long dead creature that supports the rest of the city upon its planted, fossilized back.
It is because of the High Mage Council of Karak that the city has not gone the way of the rest of the continent, foregoing magic and the old ways. And is one of the very few sanctuaries for magic users and magical creatures to intermix with humans (though it is not without its dangers.) The Council simply won't allow HAL (Human Activist League) defenders to snatch meta humans from the streets and their beds to be beaten, sold into slavery or simply murdered in the street. Here, though the population demographic is indeed higher in humans, there can actually be found at least one of most all races someplace within the city.)
Cold cole black eyes looked out from wrinkled lids like thin and delicate tissue paper. Crinkled with age and lined with an uneven skin tone of a woman who had in her youth been fare but had been too long waxing between the harsh sun and frigid winds. Her large breast hung low under knitted lumpy wool, patched green, blue and charcoal. Every inch worn with not only age but the dust of travel and the heavy hemmed muck of clumpy dragging city waist. She smelled as she looked. Dirty, old. Like a forgotten book long since worn away in the pages so that no word nor single letter was left untouched. Her purse hanging round a low fat waist clacked with the unmistakable sound of wooden chits far before and far more likely than any jingle of coin. Upon her feet she wore lose leather wrappings that had once been shoes, but like the rest of the woman time seemed to have had a say in unravelling what was, as all fairy tales started, ‘Once upon a time.’
She traveled down the evening street, unseen by those who overlooked such in a state of one category or another. Too old, too ugly. Too fat, too worn. Too dirty, too poor. Too slow. She was all the things people didn’t want to see and that was exactly why she was as she was. But, today this woman was not one without family or connections. Today she was a face known to those who knew what to see. The Crone. The Old Raven, Cecily Ce. Her cane, a knotted stick of world smoothed wood, came to a small lumpy hook in her gnarled hand. Each time it came to clack dully against the cobblestones it echoed quite sharply, more so than it had any right to. And her time bent back stayed strong against the cold winds that threatened to bring thick snow in the Ivory City’s famed third winter. A trick as the warmth of false promised spring sank back into the harsh grasp of icy numbness. The frozen fingers of frost coming to grip a world not ready for such abusive action. Though this same thing happened every year.
The Old Raven Ce looked this way and that, first to her left. Then to her right. Turning her whole body as not to use her neck when she approached a fork in the road. To one side lit in light of yellow and gold was the inn known as The Bugs Bonnet. A medium boarding house in this section of the old city. The Ironworks, where no fae in the right court had a mind to tread. But… there were a few, those brassy or downright harsh enough to purposely seek out this section. The heavy minerals and rust that died the red stained roads kept at bay those who sought to keep whatever convoluted law the nervous and ever changing factions tried to enforce. They were not quite like their brothers, not like their sisters. The fae who lived in the ironworks and drank the tainted water were, by all accounts, something a far cry darker than the others had hopes to be. Ce looked up at the flickering lights that escaped the Bugs Bonnet’s shutters and let loose a sigh that clouded the air with a great puff of hot vapor. The silver cloud flowing upward and around her face beside the steam that always seemed to curl forth from the Cogworks below. For a moment the old crone looked hesitant, her dark eyes softening, she stroked the hard bristles of a horsehair paintbrush across her cheeks as if an old habit from her strange and twisted youth. In no time at all those eyes were once more that dull charcoal black as she stepped onto the street to cross over to the inn.
The clacking of the gnarled cane foot preceded the old woman who opened the door. The cold air blowing quickly in beside her sagging round body without so much as a thank you. It swept about the open well kept floor of the inn causing a few, but not many, to look up from their lives to see what had caused the discomforting disturbance. It was not long before they would once more dismissively look away. Such was the way of things, such was the predictable order of the world so many depended upon.
With shuffling steps the old woman continued forward, the door swinging shut softly behind. She looked to a handsome dark haired man who spun a tail worth hearing, but did not stop outright. With things to do who had the time to listen to a bard and his roguish tales? Though one wrinkled ear did keep to him, and if ever there was a pause of any length to the story. An indication of drink or answering a spectator inquiry, she'd turn those dull dark eyes his way to sneak a most subcutaneous peek.
With uneven steps the crone slipped to the back of the room where a man sat, he too listening to the story but only the quiet words that managed to drift far enough to his domane. When he saw her he stood, a look of surprise and suspicion coloring bright green eyes.
“Grandmother.” He cooed with a bow, long strands of loose blond hair slipping round his naturally tanned face. The old Raven frowned. The way he had spoken was always slippery as a toad but the greeting was mocking, as if he knew something others did not. It was the way with this man, just one in a long line of his tricks.
“Boy, I am not so senile yet.” she barked quietly, sitting crossed the table from the lanky man as he sat once more. From her belt she tore away the bag of wooden disks and let it dully thump to the space between them. “One might assume you have what was paid for.” She croaked, a harsh voice brought on by ‘age’ and cold dry air.
The man chuckled and splayed long fingers like a cage over the simple bag. “I do indeed, Grandmother.” He cooed, “but you'd pay so much for something so trivial? Has age truly brought you to some wisdom us in youth could not understand?” He was mocking her again, teasing at something. Words that meant far more in far different ways than their born intention.
Old woman Ce frowned, her eyes drifting to the man cross the room whos beautiful voice enraptured a small crowd. She could not afford to let her mind wander, they slowly turned back across the table.
“You have been paid, Mister Firebird, now deliver.”
This brought upon the man's thin face a sly smile as he shook his head in quiet laughter. “Indeed I have,” there was a slight pause as he seemed to think of something voice holding back a giddy tone, “the offer still stands, Grandmother. What use does an old woman have for a lazy daughter?”
Reaching out her hand the old woman made a motion, a curling of her fingers to indicate he should cut the crap and get on with the exchange. “Quit your stalling,” she snapped. He was only getting under her skin because he knew he could. Fae were like that.
***
The setting is the Ivory City, a great gem of a trade hub built on the skeletal remains of a massive long dead beast. One of the few places a college of magic can be found in the eastern continent of a late renaissance/ light steampunk style fantasy world.
It is a round wheel and spokes design with as many 'quarters' and districts as a person could imagine. Taking hours to get from one side to the other. If a person can think of something it is likely to be found within the great metropolises ' massive walls. High class live separated from low as best they can but here there is no actual way to filter oneself from the churning populous unless they have managed to find a seat with the High Mage Council of Karak. These reclusive old wizards live in a literal ivory tower in the center of the massive bay, carved from the tusk of the same long dead creature that supports the rest of the city upon its planted, fossilized back.
It is because of the High Mage Council of Karak that the city has not gone the way of the rest of the continent, foregoing magic and the old ways. And is one of the very few sanctuaries for magic users and magical creatures to intermix with humans (though it is not without its dangers.) The Council simply won't allow HAL (Human Activist League) defenders to snatch meta humans from the streets and their beds to be beaten, sold into slavery or simply murdered in the street. Here, though the population demographic is indeed higher in humans, there can actually be found at least one of most all races someplace within the city.)
Cold cole black eyes looked out from wrinkled lids like thin and delicate tissue paper. Crinkled with age and lined with an uneven skin tone of a woman who had in her youth been fare but had been too long waxing between the harsh sun and frigid winds. Her large breast hung low under knitted lumpy wool, patched green, blue and charcoal. Every inch worn with not only age but the dust of travel and the heavy hemmed muck of clumpy dragging city waist. She smelled as she looked. Dirty, old. Like a forgotten book long since worn away in the pages so that no word nor single letter was left untouched. Her purse hanging round a low fat waist clacked with the unmistakable sound of wooden chits far before and far more likely than any jingle of coin. Upon her feet she wore lose leather wrappings that had once been shoes, but like the rest of the woman time seemed to have had a say in unravelling what was, as all fairy tales started, ‘Once upon a time.’
She traveled down the evening street, unseen by those who overlooked such in a state of one category or another. Too old, too ugly. Too fat, too worn. Too dirty, too poor. Too slow. She was all the things people didn’t want to see and that was exactly why she was as she was. But, today this woman was not one without family or connections. Today she was a face known to those who knew what to see. The Crone. The Old Raven, Cecily Ce. Her cane, a knotted stick of world smoothed wood, came to a small lumpy hook in her gnarled hand. Each time it came to clack dully against the cobblestones it echoed quite sharply, more so than it had any right to. And her time bent back stayed strong against the cold winds that threatened to bring thick snow in the Ivory City’s famed third winter. A trick as the warmth of false promised spring sank back into the harsh grasp of icy numbness. The frozen fingers of frost coming to grip a world not ready for such abusive action. Though this same thing happened every year.
The Old Raven Ce looked this way and that, first to her left. Then to her right. Turning her whole body as not to use her neck when she approached a fork in the road. To one side lit in light of yellow and gold was the inn known as The Bugs Bonnet. A medium boarding house in this section of the old city. The Ironworks, where no fae in the right court had a mind to tread. But… there were a few, those brassy or downright harsh enough to purposely seek out this section. The heavy minerals and rust that died the red stained roads kept at bay those who sought to keep whatever convoluted law the nervous and ever changing factions tried to enforce. They were not quite like their brothers, not like their sisters. The fae who lived in the ironworks and drank the tainted water were, by all accounts, something a far cry darker than the others had hopes to be. Ce looked up at the flickering lights that escaped the Bugs Bonnet’s shutters and let loose a sigh that clouded the air with a great puff of hot vapor. The silver cloud flowing upward and around her face beside the steam that always seemed to curl forth from the Cogworks below. For a moment the old crone looked hesitant, her dark eyes softening, she stroked the hard bristles of a horsehair paintbrush across her cheeks as if an old habit from her strange and twisted youth. In no time at all those eyes were once more that dull charcoal black as she stepped onto the street to cross over to the inn.
The clacking of the gnarled cane foot preceded the old woman who opened the door. The cold air blowing quickly in beside her sagging round body without so much as a thank you. It swept about the open well kept floor of the inn causing a few, but not many, to look up from their lives to see what had caused the discomforting disturbance. It was not long before they would once more dismissively look away. Such was the way of things, such was the predictable order of the world so many depended upon.
With shuffling steps the old woman continued forward, the door swinging shut softly behind. She looked to a handsome dark haired man who spun a tail worth hearing, but did not stop outright. With things to do who had the time to listen to a bard and his roguish tales? Though one wrinkled ear did keep to him, and if ever there was a pause of any length to the story. An indication of drink or answering a spectator inquiry, she'd turn those dull dark eyes his way to sneak a most subcutaneous peek.
With uneven steps the crone slipped to the back of the room where a man sat, he too listening to the story but only the quiet words that managed to drift far enough to his domane. When he saw her he stood, a look of surprise and suspicion coloring bright green eyes.
“Grandmother.” He cooed with a bow, long strands of loose blond hair slipping round his naturally tanned face. The old Raven frowned. The way he had spoken was always slippery as a toad but the greeting was mocking, as if he knew something others did not. It was the way with this man, just one in a long line of his tricks.
“Boy, I am not so senile yet.” she barked quietly, sitting crossed the table from the lanky man as he sat once more. From her belt she tore away the bag of wooden disks and let it dully thump to the space between them. “One might assume you have what was paid for.” She croaked, a harsh voice brought on by ‘age’ and cold dry air.
The man chuckled and splayed long fingers like a cage over the simple bag. “I do indeed, Grandmother.” He cooed, “but you'd pay so much for something so trivial? Has age truly brought you to some wisdom us in youth could not understand?” He was mocking her again, teasing at something. Words that meant far more in far different ways than their born intention.
Old woman Ce frowned, her eyes drifting to the man cross the room whos beautiful voice enraptured a small crowd. She could not afford to let her mind wander, they slowly turned back across the table.
“You have been paid, Mister Firebird, now deliver.”
This brought upon the man's thin face a sly smile as he shook his head in quiet laughter. “Indeed I have,” there was a slight pause as he seemed to think of something voice holding back a giddy tone, “the offer still stands, Grandmother. What use does an old woman have for a lazy daughter?”
Reaching out her hand the old woman made a motion, a curling of her fingers to indicate he should cut the crap and get on with the exchange. “Quit your stalling,” she snapped. He was only getting under her skin because he knew he could. Fae were like that.
***
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