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Oratorio.

The Deepest Frontier.

The City of Opportunity.

The Guardian of the Abyss.

Here, more than anywhere else, were legends born. Where one could reach astronomical highs and then suffer an ignoble end that overwrites all prior deeds. Where one could seek their fortune, with nothing more than the strength in their arms and a mind quick enough to seize the moment. Through the wilderness, through dirt roads, you’ve travelled, bolstered by chance encounters of others who travelled in the same direction, those with hope in their eyes for a brighter future, for a chance to prove themselves worthy.

You’ve seen those who travel the opposite direction too, beaten down by all that they could not overcome. It was the fear for some, the fear of what descending into the cradle of the monsters truly meant. Others found their limits in their bodies instead, their careers cut short by one bad cut to their arm or leg. Still more shuffled away, crushed by the guilt of the survivor, unable to pick themselves up after that one meaningful defeat. For as many legends of Adventurers have left Oratorio, there were tenfold the amount of those had-been Adventurers, nothing more than sunken vessels who may not even make it home.

Perhaps you avert your gaze. Perhaps you offer some paltry kindness. Perhaps you don’t think about them at all. For others seek Oratorio for fortune, but you? You’re possessed by a higher calling. The Shard in you, that fragment of fallen divinity, sings within your soul, urging you onwards still. It is a pernicious desire, the call of the Abyss, but it is that desire that pulls you awake at daybreak, that causes you to stretch your aching legs, that brings you upon the road again, avoiding bandits and monsters alike to go ever onwards, to Oratorio.

And now?

On that morning?

Fields of grass become beaten dirt. The stench of humanity, rather than the smell of nature, is pulled along by the wind. The air itself becomes warmer, more fetid, while in the distance, you can see the glorious, [i]gorgeous[/i] buildings of the Royal Road, standing proud upon the desiccated sprawl that continually expands outwards from the city proper. It does not take long for roadside paupers to appear. It doesn’t take long for flint-eyed thugs to start canvassing you either. Craftsmen and criminals work side-by-side upon paths that become ever-narrower, and soon enough you have to keep an eye overhead, ever-ready to step aside from someone emptying their washbasin or chamber pot from a room above.

It is overwhelming. It is disgusting. It is [i]degrading[/i].

But it too, is Oratorio.

And this too, must be endured.
[sub][@Izurich][@Kero][@Estylwen][/sub]
[hr][b]//O11 - Deserted Backstreets[/b]
It was unsurprising that no one else looked like Vio.

White hair could be found on the elderly, and blue eyes were a bit of a rarity but didn’t look too out of place, but for someone with both features? And combine that with skin nearly as white as paper? All on someone who looked like they were either a prostitute or a prince, in the springtime of his youth? There were many eyes on him from the moment he entered Oratorio.

There were more eyes on how heavily his clothes seemed to be weighed down, ears pricked for the jangling of coin in his pockets and his purse. Garth had been kind, leaving behind so much for Voi to use, but the merchant hadn’t ever visited Oratorio himself either. City-states, towns, villages, they all had their methods of keeping order within their boundaries, but here? In the Outer Layer? There was no such thing.

And now, Voi found himself in some deserted alleyway, pressed against the wall by three small-time thugs. The biggest one, a burly brawler with a face like a potato, blocked off one side of the alleyway with broadness of his shoulders alone, while one of average mass but above average height (which only served to make him look like a string bean) slinked about the other side, one eye on the opening, the other eye on Voi himself. The third, short and pudgy even for a halfling, sneered up at Voi as he scraped his dagger against the surface of Voi’s shirt.

[b]“Ey, buddy, lookin’ real fresh fer someone ‘round these parts, eh? Thought you’d do some slumming on the Outs?”[/b] There was a merciless calculation in the halfling’s eyes, which paradoxically was both hilarious and terrifying. Who knew what the small man had to do to earn the loyalty of his goons? [b]“Thank me for giving you the whole ‘xperience then. I’ll take your gratitude in coin, ye? Do it nice n quiet, and we’ll let you keep your clothes too. As a treat. Fuck 'round though, and...”[/b]

The dagger trailed down from the shirt to the belt. Not like the halfling could reach Voi's throat, even with full extension.

[b]"We'll take your balls too, buddy."[/b]

But as the threats went on, Voi sensed it too. The movement of six others nearby. Movement that stalled. More buddies of these thugs? Strangers who’d just ignore this? Or, perhaps the most unlikely of it all…

A chivalrous band of pirates, brought to land by their buxom boss?

The [i]texture[/i] of one of those souls was strange.

Perhaps the latter wasn’t so unlikely after all.
[sub][@OwO][@Theyra][/sub]
[hr][b]//A7 - Ordo Benevolence[/b]
He had had time enough to put his bags down and that was all.

Afterwards?

It was time to work.

Cantor, alongside a handful of other acolytes of Ordo Benevolence, was busy with the work of embalming, of preserving bodies in the best possible shape they could be. It was work that he was accustomed to, work that he had become gifted with since a part of his soul had been irrevocably changed, but still...[i]this[/i] work was wholly different from what he had to handle in the past. Back in the Monasteries of His Weeping Saints, it was disease or the occasional accident that took the life of a villager. The families paid well enough for the services, and the funerals helped recuperate the costs of the more expensive materials used in the process.

In Oratorio, however? It was easy to see at a glance that Ordo Benevolence existed on a knife's edge. The paint was faded, the doors were unhinged, the walls needed repairs, and the ceiling dripped. Adventurers were not faithful sorts, and there were no families who'd pay for them either. Yet, it was a duty divine, that still compelled the acolytes to restore the former liveliness of those corpses that they've received. A duty made difficult by the sheer number of [i]creative[/i] ends that these adventurers suffered. Some were half-charred. Others were shattered in half. More were savaged in ways unimaginable. Those with bodily injuries could simply be covered up, but the face was so full of soft tissues, the traversal between each Layer of the Abyss so long, that by the time the dead made it to Ordo Benevolence, most were missing their ears and their noses, or were infested with the eggs of insects unnamed and unidentifiable.

It was work that shook the heart. Work that numbed the mind. It was little wonder that cremation services offered by other facilities were more popular. And pots of ash were easier to carry homewards too.

But that was their duty. Cantor had his own and so he worked and worked and worked.

Until at noon, his monotony was broken. Not by a bell for lunch and refreshment, but rather by the bang that the doors of the church made as a man well in his middle years strode in. Dark brown hair was slicked back with grease, while a hooked nose gave off the impression of a vulture. He wore gloves, black gloves, which matched well his polished walking stick. He tapped twice against the stone floor of the church, before raising a bushy brow in Cantor's direction.

[b]"The ol' bastard can hire a new hand, I see. Must be making [i]plenty[/i] then."[/b]

A smirk flickered. A cold smirk.

[b]"You there!"[/b] The tip of the stick pointed towards Cantor. It was spiked. [b]"Get the Priest, the Father, whatever they wanna be called, up and over here. If he's busy, well...tell him that Jamieson's here to collect. That'll get him running."[/b]
[sub][@Shovel][/sub]
[hr][b]//O4 - Main Streets[/b]
[b]“Aye, scram, you animals! No one up in the Royal Road’d give a single rat’s arse about some mage from a backwaters watering hole!”[/b]

With such abuse hurled at her by the guards, Sebi had no recourse but to give up her attempts to enter the elevated portion of Oratorio. This far away from her homeland, none of her reputation remained, while prejudices against beastfolk such as herself (not really though, because kitsune were all female while foxfolk could be both) only seemed to intensify around these parts. Certainly, she couldn’t have stank [i]that[/i] bad, and yet, the guards that blocked her way up to the Royal Road nevertheless made three comments on three separate statements specifically targeting that!

Truly, there were only perverse ruffians and tasteless blockheads around these wretched parts. It was a putrid place, this Outer Layer, and the Underpass, the only path left that she could take, promised an even worse experience. Only Adventurers travelled back and forth through those subterranean passageways, after all, and all sorts of dastardly folks made those passageways their home too. If the stench of destitute civilization was already overbearing in the shit-stained streets of the Outer Layer, it was guaranteed that everything would be magnified there.

But the mother-and-daughter duo needed to reach the Adventurer’s District regardless. Such was the call of her latent Divinity, desiring what laid within the Abyss that the city safeguarded and exploited. If only there were another way. If only there was someone of note in this godless city who recognized her for what she was, a-

[b]“Ah, fair madame, a moment of your time, please!”[/b]

A voice, bright and handsome, sounded behind her. It was a gentleman undoubtedly born of nobler stock than those around him. Wavy blond hair framed his slim yet gentle face, while his eyes, possessing both intellect and art, lit up as Sebi noticed him. A slender sword, both a sign of wealth and skill, hung from a belt of glossy leather, and his boots were expertly polished and shined, not a single bit of dirt staining them.

This certainly had to be the young master of a wealth household, one who knew a women worth pursuing when he saw one!

And indeed, he was.

An excited gait, almost puppy-like, drew him closer to Sebi. Then too close, perhaps the boldness of a man who knew what he truly wanted. And finally, right past her, the sign of lunacy itself, as the young master walked ten paces further to stop before a sprightly blonde elf’s…dark-haired assistant.

Placing a hand over his heart, he dipped his head down slightly, a lock of hair tumbling down across his eyes as he did so.

[b]“Fair madame, I must profess: your visage is worthy of poetry, yet my cumbersome tongue can only proclaim you as ‘beautiful’. I am Camille des Moissan, a painter of some means. If you’ve no prior engagements on this day, might you do me the honor of allowing me to portray you in my atelier? Your companion, of course, is welcome to join as well.”[/b]

On that day, two Goddesses were present, and yet the lunatic artist had eyes for neither of them.
[sub][@Asuras][@Click This][/sub]