all the farmland; there must have been at least a hundred eager workers
gathering the city food, ready to preserve it for the winter months.
Coming to the end of the farms,
the city walls looked down upon me; guards loosely kept watch for any unruly
behaviour from people near or far. It looked as though the only way into the
city was through the main gates, which by default were guarded by heavily
armoured men.
Every person, man or woman,
showed the guards a document of citizenship in order to enter into this city;
luckily for me a group of young louts had decided to embroil themselves into a
scuffle, drawing the attention of the guards and giving me the opportunity I
needed to sneak my way behind the city walls.
There was a large stone tablet
just after entering the city, upon it were words chiselled out competently by a
stonemason.
“Welcome to Rartonvie”. It said
upon the tablet.
Now I know the name, what a useful insight.
There
were several buildings built in strikingly hefty proportions. The Council of
Rartonvie was right before me; the outside of this building was built of white
stone, tainted by the soft touch of black. The city emblem was situated above
the entrance to this building, it showed a mountain (presumably the one I had
just walked down) as well as a woman with the body of three; that must be the
person Zinmbe showed me in her book.
There were a variety of different
individuals going about their daily business; some tall, some small, witches,
wizards and I even saw a few of the Panotti; whom I had thought were a
creation of the imagination, but clearly now I had been proven wrong.
Undecided on where to go, I paced
over to a notice board which was tilted downwards at a sharp angle. Divided
into two, one half reserved for messages and the other a map of the city,
showing popular shops and landmarks for tourists to visit. The main centre of
the city was a small walk away from the entrance and this is where most of the
shops were drawn out to be.
Upon the noticeboard board were a
handful of announcements, most of them advertising menial jobs; a room
to rent, a wanted sign for a rogue sorcerer, but the notice that stood out the
most, was one advertising a lavish event, a tournament of magick and valour, at
the city stadium. Upon the notices parchment read:
“ We invite you to the fifth
annual event ‘The Rartonvie mystic brawl’ in order to enter, you must have at
least ten years of experience in your field of magick, as well as an entry fee
of a hundred coin.
The tournament
shall consist of ten rounds, the victor of which shall be crowned ‘the
principality of magick’. To enter you shall be required to visit Garmontus at
the glass makers shop.
Yours
expectantly.
Hecate”.
Taking a few of the notices, I made
my way through the streets, crossing paths with fire breathers, stilt walkers
and jugglers who wowed the crowds that had gathered around them; I quickly
found my way through the narrow streets to the centre of the city.
Central to this area was a small
place for people to sit down and rest. There were trees and flowers bedded
about the area.
Seating myself, I had decided to
relax for a second as I took in the view of this new city. The shops were
something of a mix up of materials and shapes; it appeared as if whatever the
builder had on hand they had built with; a worthy example was the
slaughterhouse. It had a standard looking shop front, the usual butchered meats
covered in salt and surrounded by fresh rosemary, but above the ground floor
there were a multitude of different wooden planks, stone bricks and even
pigskin, all jumbled together to form the outer shell of the building; an
architect’s nightmare I would add, if perhaps I could see into their thoughts.
Frustratingly, just as I was
becoming completely relaxed the seat I was upon began to shake from side to
side. Disregarding it as shoddy workmanship I tried to return to the relaxed
sensation I had felt
gathering the city food, ready to preserve it for the winter months.
Coming to the end of the farms,
the city walls looked down upon me; guards loosely kept watch for any unruly
behaviour from people near or far. It looked as though the only way into the
city was through the main gates, which by default were guarded by heavily
armoured men.
Every person, man or woman,
showed the guards a document of citizenship in order to enter into this city;
luckily for me a group of young louts had decided to embroil themselves into a
scuffle, drawing the attention of the guards and giving me the opportunity I
needed to sneak my way behind the city walls.
There was a large stone tablet
just after entering the city, upon it were words chiselled out competently by a
stonemason.
“Welcome to Rartonvie”. It said
upon the tablet.
Now I know the name, what a useful insight.
There
were several buildings built in strikingly hefty proportions. The Council of
Rartonvie was right before me; the outside of this building was built of white
stone, tainted by the soft touch of black. The city emblem was situated above
the entrance to this building, it showed a mountain (presumably the one I had
just walked down) as well as a woman with the body of three; that must be the
person Zinmbe showed me in her book.
There were a variety of different
individuals going about their daily business; some tall, some small, witches,
wizards and I even saw a few of the Panotti; whom I had thought were a
creation of the imagination, but clearly now I had been proven wrong.
Undecided on where to go, I paced
over to a notice board which was tilted downwards at a sharp angle. Divided
into two, one half reserved for messages and the other a map of the city,
showing popular shops and landmarks for tourists to visit. The main centre of
the city was a small walk away from the entrance and this is where most of the
shops were drawn out to be.
Upon the noticeboard board were a
handful of announcements, most of them advertising menial jobs; a room
to rent, a wanted sign for a rogue sorcerer, but the notice that stood out the
most, was one advertising a lavish event, a tournament of magick and valour, at
the city stadium. Upon the notices parchment read:
“ We invite you to the fifth
annual event ‘The Rartonvie mystic brawl’ in order to enter, you must have at
least ten years of experience in your field of magick, as well as an entry fee
of a hundred coin.
The tournament
shall consist of ten rounds, the victor of which shall be crowned ‘the
principality of magick’. To enter you shall be required to visit Garmontus at
the glass makers shop.
Yours
expectantly.
Hecate”.
Taking a few of the notices, I made
my way through the streets, crossing paths with fire breathers, stilt walkers
and jugglers who wowed the crowds that had gathered around them; I quickly
found my way through the narrow streets to the centre of the city.
Central to this area was a small
place for people to sit down and rest. There were trees and flowers bedded
about the area.
Seating myself, I had decided to
relax for a second as I took in the view of this new city. The shops were
something of a mix up of materials and shapes; it appeared as if whatever the
builder had on hand they had built with; a worthy example was the
slaughterhouse. It had a standard looking shop front, the usual butchered meats
covered in salt and surrounded by fresh rosemary, but above the ground floor
there were a multitude of different wooden planks, stone bricks and even
pigskin, all jumbled together to form the outer shell of the building; an
architect’s nightmare I would add, if perhaps I could see into their thoughts.
Frustratingly, just as I was
becoming completely relaxed the seat I was upon began to shake from side to
side. Disregarding it as shoddy workmanship I tried to return to the relaxed
sensation I had felt
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