Kypertus had fallen far. 

The oppressive sun high in the sky, showering everything in its wake with smoldering heat. Were it not for the merciful winds of the sea, the city would not stand. Built by the hands of giants tens of thousands of years prior, many had called the city home. Ancient man, Elves, even the Djinn of the Brass Empire once held a citadel here, but that was long destroyed. Now the grasping hands of freebooters and buccaneers held the port, ceding a tenuous loyalty to greater Alda'har as a whole. Supposedly the land was ruled by a king, but the barons held near autonomy across the land, letting the money from coastal trade fuel their campaigns of infighting as their subjects went about their daily lives. 

Much of the buildings, particularly the spires and chambers of the wealthy, were made of whitestone gathered from the bosom of the coasts. However, most of what was left was made of timber and half beaten rock, even some flotsam wasn't uncommon. The weathered wood hammered together to make doors, tables or signs. It was a sign, in fact, that Rayth stared at from the bustling street. Idly he slid his coin pouch back into his jacket, giving the barest hint of a grin from the memory of swindling that heavyset lark Bungo. Everytime he ran into the thug, the brute got dumber and dumber. 

It was only spare pocket change to keep him busy, expecting he would have to wait for hours to speak to this new captain who was looking to recruit anyone desperate enough and stupid enough to actually sail southwest of the Mahab Satrapy. It had been a daunting proposition even for Rayth, and he had been close to there before once in what seemed a previous life. But the mercenary had come to terms with it, so he tore his caramel eyes from the piece of flotsam that pointed him to the 'Docks of Madrid' and made his way through the crowd, keeping his dagger close and his eyes peeled for any loose pouches he might grab. 

Traders, artisans, and men and women of all types and ages running errands filled the cobbled streets. A burly fellow bellowed in advertisement of his fresh catch of the day, breathy odor spilling over Rayth and nearly knocking the cutthroat to his knees with the smell. He powered through it, holding his nose and passing by an Elven privateer, nose in the air and keen eyed gaze watching the filthy masses like a powdered hawk. The pointy-ears' weren't seen in the best light by much of the common folk, but they brought wealth and held an air of dignity to them that encouraged respect. 

Pushing aside an idiot that just stood in the middle of the street, Rayth entered the accompanying alleyway and decided to make for a shortcut. Two ragged men lay asleep or dead beside fallen heaps of debris in the shade between buildings, Rayth discovering one alive by virtue of scratching his ass as he murmured. Rayth didn't bother to check the other, stepping over what he had to step over as carts and laborers made a clatter across the way. 

Minutes later, he had made it four blocks and found himself stepping onto the city's Dock section, which in truth held far more than where ships found berth. Statues of perched wyverns leaped into view, overlooking the streets with gazes that sometimes almost glimmered under their thick, wooden brows. Some whispered the Archmage of the city could watch the trade and happenings from these carvings, but Rayth doubted it. More like the rumor was a scare tactic to keep illicit dealings from being too overt under the sun. Turning his head, he found the place he looked for. A two storied tavern just two streets from the water, dubbed 'Tacklerock Tavern' by the owner. 

Finally, a place to take a seat.