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Sterling grunted as their leg started to cramp from where they were wedged, halfway down the Second Master Arcanist’s chimney.

Talasin-Zo had just sat down in a near empty tavern, crouched deeply in the mud at the fifth crossroads, in Old Zamora Town.

Liberty of the clink, working the corner. Outside the law. 5 pounds a throw, can you afford it, Sir?

He loved the iron city, though it wasn’t iron all the way through. It was lights and concrete and metal girders, and cold, and rain.

Dorian was familiar with obsessions. Many of them flared brightly, and the warmth of their distraction blazed across his skin and mind.

Lights flickered through the yellow smog. Neon pinks and blues, greens and oranges…

From his unshorn hair dripped clear water, clinging to the tip of a pointed ear and rolling, rolling down its curve.