[h1][color=goldenrod]Thomas Marborough[/color][/h1]
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[indent][i][b]November 10, 9:28 PM
South Commons, Workshop 67[/b][/i][/indent]
“So what made you move up?” The Engineer behind the desk asked, reading over Thomas’ service transfer form. The young man standing before him, Thomas himself, looked downward for a moment, before he responded softly…

[color=goldenrod]“I just… don’t feel safe out there, anymore.”[/color]

The Engineer nodded. “No worries.” He said, “Nothing wrong with wanting to feel safe. And hey, the city’s gotten quite lively over the years. It’ll be good for you.” He looked down at the paper and pressed a stamp on it, with the Engineers’ seal of approval in full red ink. He handed the paper back to Thomas and said, “Take it to the Observatory’s administrative offices. Someone’ll set you up with a temporary training course in Flesh Golem maintenance and repair.”

[color=goldenrod]“I know a good bit already, actually. My mother was a Tier III.”[/color]

“Good for you then! You can skip that bit. You should be good to go by tomorrow then. Unless you need a form for housing?”

[color=goldenrod]“No, that’s alright. I’ll be using my father’s residence.”[/color]

“Excellent. Take care, then.”

And with that, Thomas turned away and exited the Workshop, off to Old Voldoa.

His life as a Tier I was over.

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[indent][b][i]November 18, 3:41 PM
West Commons[/i][/b][/indent]
And his life as a Tier II had begun.

Thomas leaned over the railing of a bridge situated over a waterway. They ran from Arboretum down throughout the Commons, eventually dissipating into a series of small tunnels leading down into the Undercity. He’d heard that, in the past, some Voldoans used to try and climb down them to see what lies beneath the ground they walk upon. Whatever happened to them afterwards, they never remembered what they saw.

He watched as Voldoans of all sorts passed by him. Some concealed in their human forms, others towering over the rest in their full glory. Furry ones, scaly ones, ones with horns, ones with tails… all kinds, all around.

It was almost kind of frightening. He’d never really been… [i]among[/i] them.

Up until a week ago, Thomas had been working alongside his father as a Tier I. But a few too many run-ins with the Fifty-Eighters, the Order of Saint Derring, and the Silver Battalion… it was just too much for him. But his father Collin supported his final decision, in the end.

[i]“You’ll be closer to your mother that way. I think she’d like that.”[/i]

Dear Lydia. God rest her soul.

Well, nothing much was happening at the moment. No announcements, no nearby Flesh Golems in need of repair... bit of a slow day really. Thomas detached himself from the railing and turned away, strolling down the path, passing by more and more Voldoans, wondering what to do about nothing.

Maybe something would come up.

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[h1][color=slategray]Kantus, Lord of Owls[/color][/h1]
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[indent][i][b]November 18, 3:41 PM
West Commons, Kantus’ Clinic[/b][/i][/indent]
Needles. Jars. Braces. Rods. Strings.

As Kantus placed the last bottle of some strange medicine atop a shelf, he was officially done with the week’s stocking of supplies. He glossed over the shelf full of the stuff with his unblinking eyes. He stepped back a bit, and then turned his head. He tucked his sickly gray arms back inside his coat. Rather unsightly, those things were. As an owl, he had wings. But those were hardly good for writing or lifting things, so… he remedied that when he set up this clinic quite some time ago.

Seven years.

Kantus exited the storage room, into the main wing of the clinic. Wooden floors, cabinets everywhere, ornate beds and curtains on the sides. This was more where Engineers and smaller Voldoans would be treated. Upstairs were the more [i]situational[/i] establishments.

Kantus took a step behind the front desk, opening a log book seated on top and beginning to write inside of it. For record’s sake of course. Not that he much needed it at all, solid as his memory and sense of space were.

His assistant, however…