Survey room

You walk to the center of your room and glance around. Your mattress, a crushed wafer piled with blankets, sags in one corner. A wooden box rests next to it. Inside are your clothes, which are little more than stitched rags of a fibrous substance and a belt or two, a kit of string and needles, and your trusty knife. Your leather boots, stylish and handy, rest atop the box.

 

On the opposite end of the room next to the window is a plain metal desk without a chair. Heaps of rotting paper and dried bottles of ink are piled to one end of the desk, and a dirty plate adorns the other. A stump of a candle sits lopsided on a saucer, but it has not been lit for years. Your mother taught you to read and write long ago, but the ability has never seen practical use. The desk has a single drawer. Beneath a false bottom is your most valuable object, a leather-bound book wrapped in an oily cloth.

 

A hollow socket is embedded in the ceiling above. Every room of every building in the entire city has one or multiple crevices like this. Their purpose has been lost to time. The village tinkerer suggests that master wizards once used these sockets as conduits for their will, sending waves of psychic will through vast networks of mana to communicate across vast distances.

 

Finally, a wooden door that leads to a cramped hallway that leads to a cramped kitchen that leads to a cramped stairway that leads to a cramped street that leads to the most cramped and despicable city on the face of the world is set into the back wall of your room. A nail on the door holds up a sleek brown cloak with a hood.

 

A smell of cut grass wafts into your nose, but it disappears as suddenly as it arose.

 

Ready to go?