[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/zp4Lnjc.png[/img][/center]
[b]//O7 - Public Square[/b]
Lodging was an uncertain thing in the Outer Layer of Oratorio. There was a sense of seediness and danger even in the cleanest inns, with little more promised than a small bed and a blanket over a hay mattress. Furnishing was expensive, after all, and if you spent too much on furnishing, there was little one could do to prevent its theft. Of course, innkeepers with enough income could purchase the protection of local gangs, those steely-eyed thugs who stared down Lethe and his followers when he drew near whilst stinking of poverty, but that made one susceptible to having that same inn be commandeered by those gangsters whenever they wish for it.

It was an uncertain thing, lodging, and it was made more so by the fact that after the long trip to Oratorio, Lethe’s purse was empty. Work had to be found, work for a gravekeeper to do, and yet in this district, there looked to simply be no space for a graveyard to be. In the distance, white smoke rose up, a sign perhaps of cremation, but here, where the living were already bordering death, there was nothing. Nothing but…

Movement caught his eye. An aged draft horse, pulling a heavy wagon, its rider allowing it to trot slowly through the streets. The rider’s partner hopped off the side, grabbed a cloaked individual slumped against the corner of the alleyway. His gloved hands manipulated the person’s face briefly, before he nodded and hurled the body up onto the wagon, where it joined the tangle of limbs, the small pile of corpses, that the draft horse continued to pull outwards.

Wherever the two men were bringing their load, it was not to be inside Oratorio.

Whether Lethe sought to hail those two or allow them to continue their grim work unbothered, however, remained up in the air.
[sub][@Thayr][/sub]
[hr][b]//A15 - Slaughterhouse No. 4[/b]
The people in the Adventurer’s District were friendly enough, at least. A few questions here, a few statements there, perhaps a coin or a paid drink to loosen the tongue, and there were plenty who were happy to point out the direction that the odd pair needed.

The travel time was longer, of course. While it was clear that the matchmaker they talked to before was someone whom had a ‘roaming’ show, Slaughterhouse No. 4 was contained within a proper establishment, giving it a sense of legitimacy. A few breaks had to be taken on the way, a few pickpocketing attempts had to be thwarted too, but considering how neither Almagest nor Frederika gave the sense of possessing wealth to begin with, it was uneventful for a stroll through the District.

And before the old man’s legs could give out beneath him, his Dragonkin Paladin spotted the audaciously colorful sign of ‘Slaughterhouse No. 4’ in the distance, braziers of green fire burning by its entrance. It was a wide building, made of good, solid wood, but a flat one too, featuring only a single floor. The doors weren’t locked, and strolling in, the two would find themselves in the sheltered portion of a sandpit arena, which was partitioned off from the perimeter by a wooden fence, roughly the height of Almagest’s waist. In the midday, there were only fighters present, striking at wooden dummies with weapons or their own fists. Others lifted rocks or performed body-weight exercises, still more sparred against each other, in a way that suggested it was more for cardio rather than to hone technique.

Compared to the raucous Shire’s Lock, this looked to be a proper place to train and fight.

[b]“Aye, old man,”[/b] a dwarven woman strolled up to them, her coarse hair tied back in bun, her own face a collection of scars and wrinkles. [b]“Whatcha here for? Sellin’ ‘er to the pits?”[/b]
[sub][@Izurich][/sub]
[hr][b]//O3 - Bladerights Estate[/b]
Silence followed the echoes of her voice, though there was undoubtedly the presence of another in the room. Candles, deduced through their slender form and the uncommon warmth of the interior, were placed at the back, while a winged staircase, though one that was unevenly constructed, offered a path up to the second floor. As the living mass shifted, Elys could perceive the presence of a statue around the candles as well, a humanoid with four limbs and an inhuman skull.

But that was beside the point. Within the building, she could hear steps upstairs, the lighter steps of children, and she could hear the lecturing of a matronly voice too, teaching the finer points of language and mathematics. There was the smell of boiled milk and vegetables, a soup in the making, as well as the more-distant sound of water splashing, of fabrics being scrubbed against a washboard. It had to be a place for children, a place for students, a place for orphans.

The clacking of wood, however, sounded still, in an offbeat rhythm to the heavy steps of the mass approaching her. What was it? What did that sound suggest, in the context of a place for children, a place for education?

[b]“Always sending the interesting ones, hm?”[/b]

The voice was effeminate, a watery thinness.

[b]“You’re a swordswoman then. What do you want?”[/b] A pause. [b]“And what do you value?”[/b]

Incense clung to the woman’s clothes, thick with reverence and penance.
[sub][@Estylwen][/sub]
[hr][b]//A7 - Ordo Benevolence[/b]
[b]“How can a band of Acolytes compare to those who do this for a living?”[/b]

Despite the pain, there too was resignation and acceptance, that of a man who had bore much in his elderly age, one who was accustomed to the suffering of this world.

[b]“And who would care for the dead, if one lost their arm or their leg to the Maw of the Abyss? We would be reaching for sunlight, yet find ourselves grasping lightning.”[/b]

Slowly, the Father picked himself up, and another Acolyte rushed to his side to offer support. Without his staff, he could not walk, and his brows furrowed further as he was lead away to his chambers. No doubt, there would be prayers made and prayers unanswered. The God they revered was dead, and it was in divinity’s memory that the Church of Ordo Benevolence continued their services, unpaid and unthanked as they were.

Others, however, were too young to accept the unjust millstone that sought to ground good men to dust.

Her eyes, dark as the earth, bored into her bloodied tools, knuckles gleaming white against her pallid skin. She was a waif-like thing, the robes of an acolyte hanging loosely over her form, her red hair the colour of dead leaves, her bloodless lips drawn in a tight line. But her expression smoothed over at Cantor’s approach.

She drew in a breath. [b]“No, thank you Brother Cantor. I can take care of this myself.”[/b] And she moved to do so, picking up her tools with deliberation to clean them off one by one. [b]“I am Laina.”[/b]

And then, with slightly more deliberation, she asked, [b]“You’ve worked as a sellsword before?”[/b]
[sub][@Shovel][/sub]
[hr][b]//A3 - On Route to the Abyss[/b]
Certainly, there were larger groups of individuals that Theodore saw while being lead towards the high walls that bordered the Abyss. There were groups that looked to be preparing for a proper expedition, porters carrying heavy luggage and adventurers equipped with gleaming armour, maps being brought out by the leaders of the expeditions, men and women hardened by their experiences of the Abyss’s depths. Smaller groups looked towards the white walls, the remnants of the God-slaying spear, with excitement instead, even if they looked barely better-equipped than the Ichor-Blessed’s own group of miners.

Most were just getting by, however. Those clusters of adventurers who had lost their innocence but had not yet seen grand success. They glanced over at the group of Abyss-miners and smirked, deriving a sense of superiority in the fact that [i]they[/i], at least, weren’t so wretched as this lot. A few of them even called out to the portly leader, about the latest batch of dead meat to feed the goblins, and received similarly friendly jabs about the lycans. Perhaps it wasn’t a common practice, but it wasn’t an illegal one either.

Though was there anything truly illegal in Oratorio?

The clinking of chains sounded brightly. A sideways glance confirmed that slavery too, while not common enough to have been encountered up to this point, was still very much alive in this City of Opportunity too.

But who cared for those bound and collared, that row of pathetic fellows? They still lived better than the wretched of the Underpass, after all, who'd doubtlessly trade their languid freedom for chains and a proper roof over their heads. And what could Theodore even do other than observe, when he too was bound by the chain of 'work', by the ever-present call of the Abyss?
[sub][@SilverPaw][/sub]
[hr][b]//O8 - The Underpass[/b]
Strange, how silence could dwell in a place filled with echoing noise.

Strange, how time, that hypocrite, could extend to eternity or collapse to instant, all while claiming objective, equal progression.

The child’s tongue moved within her mouth, licking at the bleeding gap in her teeth. Drinking it, along with saliva, to clear out her throat. She had not the energy for a desperate plea, knew not whether this strange woman was someone she should cling to, or just someone who enjoyed watching the misery of the young.

But she opened up her mouth regardless and spoke a single phrase.

[b]“Ma's sick.”[/b]
[sub][@Kero][/sub]
[hr][b]//O4 - Camille's Atelier[/b]
Ever-humble, Camille shook his head.

[b]“I’m but a student still,”[/b] he said, with a self-deprecating smile. [b]“And in the eyes of elves such as yourself, I can’t imagine that any man without a long beard and a wizened face could be considered capable of ‘culture’.”[/b]

So Camille wasn’t wholly oblivious to the possible ages of his guests. He continued his work regardless, however, and watching from over his shoulder, Meisa could definitely see the sort of progression that his works took. A charcoal stick formed Firenze’s outline, giving her silhouette the impression of rising out from the shadows, while a finer stylus traced into the canvas itself the grooves in which paint would soon settle. There was a sense indeed, that despite the incomplete totality of what untrained eyes would see as Firenze, Camille worked to capture the fewest possible details that were required to get at the royal bodyguard’s [i]essence[/i].

The sharpness of her jawline. The arch of her nose. The graceful wave of hair that fell over one eye, the way her eyelashes lifted up in the opposite one.

[b]“As for my inspiration…well, it was a matter of inheritance, in truth. Someone who I’m indebted to granted me this lifestyle, as well as the contents of their study. I don’t truly believe I understand their actions even now, but I figured that I would understand it more, if I were to read what they’ve read.”[/b]

He pondered over an imagined line. Then, with a stiff arm and a stroke of afflatus, he followed through with what he envisioned.

[b]“If you don’t mind me asking a question in return, miss, could you tell me your own reasons for entering Oratorio? I’ve seen a few elves around here before, but those who do possess the countenance of outlanders and spellcasters, or would not have appeared outside the Royal Road to begin with.”[/b]
[sub][@Click This][/sub]
[hr][b]A12 - The Rooster and Ridge[/b]
The aroma of roasted chicken and butter made Voi’s choice for him and drew him past the swinging doors of the Rooster and Ridge, a humble eatery. At this time of day, only those who did not have any plans at all of heading down into the Abyss were present. Lunch had passed, after all, and dinner was still far away. A few hardy folk nursed their drinks and chewed on bones and cartilage, but they looked more like labourers than anything else, while an absent-minded man, the proprietor of this eatery, absentmindedly cleaned the table.

But there were still a few in this room whose appearance spoke of adventure, or at least of danger.

In the corner, their boots kicked up onto the table and their wide-brimmed hat settled over their face, a lone ranger reclined, chewing upon some kind of herb as they whiled away their time.

Commandeering one of the larger tables now that no one would tell them off for it, a band of friendly, youthful faces poured over what their black-haired leader claimed was a map of the first layer of the Abyss, their collective pittance of funds scattered over that same table as they argued and discussed what their plan would be for tomorrow.

A pair of older, grizzled adventurers hunched over their own tables, drinking heavily from the bottle and glaring at the squad of rookies with derision. Occasionally they would spit out something about ‘amateurs’ and ‘monster fodder’, but nothing came of those remarks.

None of them gave Voi anything more than a passing glance when he entered. White hair, pale skin, and blue eyes were a striking combination, but perhaps there were weirder sights still, once one descended into the domain of the Perishing Star. 
[sub][@Theyra][/sub]