65th of Fall, 511 AV
There was nothing left but rubble. The rafters poked at the pewter sky, lay strewn across a labyrinth of pale timbers spars, heaps of broken bricks at the corners, shadows dancing in the gaps where the masonry was undisturbed, leading to what had once been a cellar, but now was fouled by rodents and refuse. There was a cherry tree on the verge, darkly gnarled, the squat limbs hanging under a crushing burden of fruit, much of which lay rotting on the ground, giving off a cloying stench.
“Decay,” Ulric gave a shrug. “That was ever our fate.” There was a creak of joints as he bent his leg, leaned back on the low ridge of unmortared rocks that divided the wreck from a neglected courtyard. The square was speckled with wet leaves, gray and purple lichen encrusting the shingle roofs, the cracked statuary, the crumbling bricks and plaster of the surrounding buildings. Tufts of weeds sprouted from amid the cobbles, the pale colors contrasting starkly with the dark rocks. There was the harsh cry of a crow, dark, tawdry wings beating the sky. Then nothing but the wind’s faint skirl, the distant ring of a forge, the scrape of leaves.
Taking a firmer grip on the clay jug, he swirled the dregs of his sour red, as if seeking some dire portent. “Don’t you agree?”
“Hason ubad ibaf, aubf ibad, aufqvw onadb yvqb fi baubf isdfa,” grunted Desank, his Gasvik, turning to face the wreck. Desank favored an angular face, his nose but a slit, eyes large, ropes of horns splaying over the space between tiny, thrusting ears. The fingers had a scant webbing, partly concealing dark, blunted claws. “Juason, aifeb ubd onafb yqwb vai byde. Asn aifb yvd fbbm ji uvanvc knd ba obudb, vayf huasdaf. Buhad aofn vqwd ibdfb, yvas aond qwuf. Pasnd uabf vyas rcre asrdr, eref ausbd vabsd nanfb, finh. Ulric just frowned.
“You’re being too loquacious,” he grunted, staring sadly at his dwindling supply of wine, and took another harsh, pungent sip. “You know, you were finer company when you didn’t speak.”
“Fausn aif?” Desank raised a brow, gave a snort. Ulric just ran his tongue over cracking lips, turning away so he could regard the far alley that led into the courtyard, which had already moved twice over the past few chimes. He had to be wary, else he could be entangled in this bleak, chimerical square when dusk came, or worse, the when a crimson dawn rose over the uneven, decaying roofs.
“The days always get worse when the wine runs out,” he lamented, a sigh escaping his yawning mouth, and thrust the jar aside. He clutched at the fur cloak, concealing the armor he wore beneath, the layers of leather, scales, and plate a reminder of his constant danger.
There was a crackle of twigs, a rat scurrying from its nest. Caw, shrieked the crow, and the sky grew darker.
OOCShkara won’t be able to see/hear the Gasvik, so just ignore him for now.
