Trask was tired. He was always tired. As he picked his way through the streets, past vendors and patrons alike, squabbling over bargains on cheap junk, he pondered why he was always so drained. Was it the life he had led catching up with him? Was it simply age? Or what is the accursed smog that hung over the whole city like a caustic veil robbing them of sunlight and placing dark fingers around the cities throat, choking the lfe from all who dwell below it. His train of thought was broken by a man stumbling backwards into him. Wincing as he was forced to put all his weight on his weak leg, he grunted and pushed the man back upright. There was no apology, but then, Trask didn't expect one. Not these days.

[color=ed1c24]"Watch where you're going, you imbecile!"[/color] He shouted after the man as he once again disappeared into conversation about some trinket or other, the next in a long line of shiny placebos the man will buy in order to fill the void that's left in the absence of any real freedom or happiness. People fill their lives with useless material things, convinced that one day they will be content, but they never are. Trask hated those people. Whether he hated them for their avaricious nature, their poorly thought out, illogical delusions or simply the fact that they still had the will to chase some kind of contentment in their lives, he wasn't sure. All he knew was he hated them.

Turning a corner, he relaxed a little, the alley into which he had turned as far less crowded than the main street and he was finally able to relax his shoulders ind fall into a decent walking rhythm. The noise of the market died down and he could hear the people in their homes, behind the walls that created the alleyway. There were arguments, crying, at one point, he was convinced he could hear someone praying. [i][color=ed1c24]There's not much call for prayer in place where the gods have stopped looking.[/color][/i] He thought to himself as he  reached the other end of the alley and walked out into a small plaza. As he crossed the square he looked down at the mosaic set as the centrepiece. It must once have been a sight to behold, a striking mural of prosperity, but now, the scuffs of his boots joined the decades of others marring its surface, making the original pattern all but impossible to discern.

As he reached the other side of the square he ducked between two buildings into another alley where he stopped at an unmarked door. The Stiltwalker's Fall was a small tavern and one of the best kept secrets in the city. It was no surprise though, a secret that nobody cares about is one easily kept. It was dark, dingy and in disrepair, but it was quiet. That was exactly the type of place Trask was looking for. He banged on the heavy wooden door and waited. After a few seconds, a small hatch slid open and a pair of dull green eyes peered out from within.

[color=8dc73f]What's the password?[/color] A voice asked.

[color=ed1c24]Open the damned door, Pael, I'm thirsty.[/color] Trask snapped.

[color=8dc73f]Oh, it's you. Hang on.[/color]

Bolts slid back and the door creaked open. Stepping inside, the smell of rotten wood and cheap alcohol greeted him. The door slammed shut behind him.