S
Sideris
Guest
Original poster
It begins like it always begins.
The horizon stretches out farther than belief under a blue dome of sky. Rags of cloud spoil this picturesque spring day, black bellied and promising mudsump roads and fields for any soul looking to travel. The sea of grass surrounding Zala sways in time with gentle wind.
Overhead, just a few spans removed from zenith, a star burns brightly enough to be seen in the afternoon sky.
Zala is an island amidst the Prairie Sea, which stretches from Port Calin in the south, races along the River of Tears northward past Sijan, up, up merging into the subdued steppe of Medo. Snaking Guild caravans creep over the horizon promising wares, news, and people from the East. Being one of the few cosmopolitan cities within Medo, these are common things. You'd have no trouble finding dealers peddling Chiaroscuran glass or dream peppers from Kamthahar or a rare serpentfolk from Ixcoatli.
Some of you* know of Zala, the 'False Smile of Medo.' The last stop before the true flavor of Medoan contempt for southron precincts and its people becomes pungent enough to permeate interactions.
Still, there are familiar sights of humanity. Like revolutionary zeal.
Like scarlet pennants bearing the Imperial Mon, which normally wave in the wind atop the governor's block, but now burn atop a pile of saddles and finery just outside the south city gates. A clutch of Medoan native troops are chucking nondescript bags and other items to the flames. Most look pleased, if tired. They wave cheerfully from the shadow of the city wall.
All foot and cart traffic slows to a crawl so to gape at the brass balls of the sight.
OOC thread.
The horizon stretches out farther than belief under a blue dome of sky. Rags of cloud spoil this picturesque spring day, black bellied and promising mudsump roads and fields for any soul looking to travel. The sea of grass surrounding Zala sways in time with gentle wind.
Overhead, just a few spans removed from zenith, a star burns brightly enough to be seen in the afternoon sky.
Zala is an island amidst the Prairie Sea, which stretches from Port Calin in the south, races along the River of Tears northward past Sijan, up, up merging into the subdued steppe of Medo. Snaking Guild caravans creep over the horizon promising wares, news, and people from the East. Being one of the few cosmopolitan cities within Medo, these are common things. You'd have no trouble finding dealers peddling Chiaroscuran glass or dream peppers from Kamthahar or a rare serpentfolk from Ixcoatli.
Some of you* know of Zala, the 'False Smile of Medo.' The last stop before the true flavor of Medoan contempt for southron precincts and its people becomes pungent enough to permeate interactions.
Still, there are familiar sights of humanity. Like revolutionary zeal.
Like scarlet pennants bearing the Imperial Mon, which normally wave in the wind atop the governor's block, but now burn atop a pile of saddles and finery just outside the south city gates. A clutch of Medoan native troops are chucking nondescript bags and other items to the flames. Most look pleased, if tired. They wave cheerfully from the shadow of the city wall.
All foot and cart traffic slows to a crawl so to gape at the brass balls of the sight.
Particularly the well-read and/or Northern characters.
OOC thread.