The City

In a morass of sheared rock and rent soil, of fouled oasis and haggard tree, dwells a single city. Its dim amber glow shines like a nest of fireflies in an unceasing drizzle. Towers and squat hovels alike are carved from a black stone, sharing the qualities of basalt and obsidian. Here, the City Dwellers live, and die. Their existence is without beginning nor end, without progress nor regress, just the eternal living moment. Quailing is their birth, but silent is their passing as night fades into night, forever in an immortal reign...

Stee rode quietly, as expected for his age. The hurga snorted happily as it plodded down the wet, cobbled street, scaled paws flattening and webbing in traction with each lumbering step. Two gleaming yellow eyes with black irises darted about in examination of their surroundings, familiar with everything and suspecting nothing. The drizzle went on, a chorus of pit-pats that sprinted throughout city.

The City. An urban labyrinth grafted with a membrane of crystalline, yet lightless black. Nothing reflected the light given off by the ordered and evenly spaced lamp posts, yet it seemed the darkness was not from a lack of light, but from an insatiable thirst for it. A thirst that is unquenchable by the meager illumination of the lamps, and given no satisfaction at all by the unceasing deluge.

Stee checked his leather jerkin, inspecting it for burns. Pleased with finding none, he dug into the opening of his shirt to pull out a tarnished silver pocket watch. He popped the clasp and flipped the lid open. Six o'clock. He had time. Nothing to do at six o'clock, but enjoy his silent reverie as the hurga plodded its way back to their home. He needn't worry, for the cutpurses wouldn't be out till nine o'clock, they were always on time. His tiny lantern hung at the side of his saddle, ready to be lit at a moment's notice. But Stee didn't worry about light just yet. Not till the seven o'clock heavy pour. Like the cutpurses it was also on time. He glanced down to his right hip, where a sheathed carving knife hung from his belt. On its pommel was engraved the initials S.B. simple and elegant. The clainspar was soon; Stee looked forward to the event. Perhaps he would see her again. She was an enchanting creature, and had captured his notice some time ago, during the last clainspar, when he had been too young to compete. Her bellicose father, Jamsin Galady of the Southern Galadys had announced her candidacy as the prize for the next clainspar, a prize Stee coveted. He wondered how he would handle her, would he claim her for his bride, as tradition dictated, or would he try to woo her, a game that men often played but never won. He looked forward to the event, as all young men his age did, and expected an addition to his family, as all young men his age did. Thoughts of the much anticipated competition cluttered his mind as an unseen figure stepped from an alleyway.

The man was panting and obviously fagged, a look of anxiety was splashed across his weathered countenance. He wore odd attire, long, dark and elegant, and a tall hat, under from which spouts of sleek silvery hair poured down to his shoulders. A queerly capped cane stood at his beckon. Realizing he had company, Stee brought his attention upon the fellow, and his cane. He could not make out what the cane head was depicting, but he could tell it was a ruddy gold, something of value.