06-07-2017, 05:36 PM
Agloval leads your group through the narrow twisting streets of the Scientific Quarter, the oldest part of the the ancient city. There were pedestrians milling about the streets. Most were human and a few were the frog-like humanoids. But some among them were strange, large, green humanoids with spikes growing from their skin that reminded you of a cactus and Large birds wearing breeches and loose shawls placed in a way that didn't hinder their wings. There were rickshaws that were mostly led by strange bird-like dinosaurs but you do spot one with a sad looking man attached, whose body from the waist down were a pair of large wheels and protruding from his belly was a glass lens that emitted a bright light. But most shocking was when you spotted a shapely woman silently beckoning you closer for some obvious carnal pleasures. Her head was covered by a delicate silk cloth that she gingerly lifts for you to see a full living Scarab attached to her shoulders. The scarab's legs curl and stretch toward you seductively.
While you walk you see bakeries and laundries and guildhalls, all the sundry services any community needed. There were pubs and shops and even a militia tower; a small stubby one at the apex of Brock Marsh where the River Canker and the River Tar converged. The poster plastered on the crumbling walls advertised of dancehalls, warned of the some coming doom and demanded allegiance to the some strangely named political parties.
Badgers scamper past with lists in their teeth, their pear-shaped bodies disappearing into special flaps in shop doorways. Above the thick glass storefronts were attic rooms that seemed to teeter precariously over the street from decades of neglect. Strange vapors wafted over the roofs.
The converging rivers on either side ran sluggishly, and the water steamed here and there as its currents mixed nameless chymicals into potent compounds. The slop from failed experiments, from factories and laboratories and alchymists' dens, mixed randomly into bastard elixirs.
Finally you turn down a quiet stretch of the river's edge onto the decaying flagstones and tenacious weeds of the Umber Promenade. Across the River Canker, the Ribs [Which are literally the ribs of some long dead colossal beast] jutted over the roofs like a clutch of vast tusks curling hundreds of feet into the air. The river sped up a little as it bore south. Half a mile away you see ancient stone towers that rose from the very edges of an island planted in the middle where the rivers converged.
The clouds were dissipating, leaving behind a washed-out sky. In front of you you see the week-choked forecourt of, The Dying Child. The ancient tables in the outside yard were colorful with fungus. It looked like no one had sat in one of them for years or maybe decades.
![[Image: 96bed75d03dec6e0fe921a789f565995.jpg]](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/96/be/d7/96bed75d03dec6e0fe921a789f565995.jpg)
While you walk you see bakeries and laundries and guildhalls, all the sundry services any community needed. There were pubs and shops and even a militia tower; a small stubby one at the apex of Brock Marsh where the River Canker and the River Tar converged. The poster plastered on the crumbling walls advertised of dancehalls, warned of the some coming doom and demanded allegiance to the some strangely named political parties.
Badgers scamper past with lists in their teeth, their pear-shaped bodies disappearing into special flaps in shop doorways. Above the thick glass storefronts were attic rooms that seemed to teeter precariously over the street from decades of neglect. Strange vapors wafted over the roofs.
The converging rivers on either side ran sluggishly, and the water steamed here and there as its currents mixed nameless chymicals into potent compounds. The slop from failed experiments, from factories and laboratories and alchymists' dens, mixed randomly into bastard elixirs.
Finally you turn down a quiet stretch of the river's edge onto the decaying flagstones and tenacious weeds of the Umber Promenade. Across the River Canker, the Ribs [Which are literally the ribs of some long dead colossal beast] jutted over the roofs like a clutch of vast tusks curling hundreds of feet into the air. The river sped up a little as it bore south. Half a mile away you see ancient stone towers that rose from the very edges of an island planted in the middle where the rivers converged.
The clouds were dissipating, leaving behind a washed-out sky. In front of you you see the week-choked forecourt of, The Dying Child. The ancient tables in the outside yard were colorful with fungus. It looked like no one had sat in one of them for years or maybe decades.
