Glade 45, 122
The late Glade-wind came in from the western mountains, cutting through the warm, sleepy fog which massed around the High City. It wasn't particularly cold or biting, but it was chill, an energetic tingle against the exposed skin which the warming months had tricked the people into showing. It was a calming wind, which buffed the clouds from the sky and left nothing but the jewel-studded vault of night, the majesty of the stars fading slowly into view as the magenta sunset bled away from the horizon. It was an evening to set a poet's mind racing, a lover's heart beating; it was a night which could have calmed a raging warrior and turned them into a momentary ascetic.
Naturally, Imogen Ward was inside, cleaning.
There are only two really good times to clean a well-trafficked building; before anyone gets there, or after everyone leaves. The Theater had to be swept, mopped and de-litterfied daily, but it also required occasional deep cleanings, where every surface could be thoroughly cleansed and polished, every cushion washed and aired, and all of the hard-to-spot mold and tarnish identified and removed. Imogen preferred to do the deep cleaning in morning installments, to give herself time for Coven business in the evening, but there was no Coven business for her until she returned from her business trip to Ecith. Thus, the logic followed with happy simplicity, evening cleaning was to be preferred.
One of the intangible perks of her position was that Imogen had no direct supervisor, and could proceed as she liked. Though the janitor was famously oblivious to people, obstacles, direct conversation, fires, military coups, wars and apocalypse, Imogen was almost preternaturally attuned to the presence of grime, and could pick out a spot or stain from a hundred paces. Thus, she was left to clean as she desired; and thus, she chose to sweep the plaza directly outside of the Pfenning's great main entry as the sunset.
The Sunsinger smiled as the cool breeze worked its way through her hair, evaporating the sweat on the back of her neck and tugging at her uniform jacket. The leaves, crumpled papers and discarded tobacco products were light on the ground today, but she chose to sweep slowly anyway, enjoying the dying light playing upon the river which separated poor and powerful in the city. Well-to-do humans hustled past the plaza sporadically, wealthy traders and military officers trading searching glances.
The nobs had been like that for weeks. Imogen understood that these were men and women who lived and died on their position, but nobody seemed ready to make assumptions about how they fit in Kelgarde's new order. Each nod, each doffed hat, each furtive look- they were constantly trying to take the measure of those around them. And so, of course, they were really trying to gauge their own positions in society. After all, if Kane could simply disappear in a day, if all of his closest supporters could be killed or change their stripes so quickly, who was to say that their "family's mansion" or fancy townhouse stood on anything more than sand?
It truly seemed like an exhausting way to live.
As the stars bloomed overhead, Imogen hummed a jaunty tune which she had heard a season past, in some new master's production or another. She wasn't a professional, but her singing voice was clear and reasonably pleasant,.
"The sand slipped through the hourglass... she said softly to her broom, "And the hour of the wolves draws near at last."
It had been some tawdry ballad, a production where every piece had to be prophesy and the main couple had to die at the end, but she had liked it nonetheless because in the ending wolves killed every member of the supporting cast with absolutely no justification. It wasn't a good plot twist, of course, but the world was full of good plots. It was refreshing, to her mind, to see a story which eschewed all reason in favor of having the composer's weirdest fever dream kill every character.
"And life was good, and the sun was high..." Not terribly appropriate for sundown, but you couldn't have it all. Speaking of which, she couldn't remember how the rest of the verse went. "Ah, well. Bugger that, then."
The late Glade-wind came in from the western mountains, cutting through the warm, sleepy fog which massed around the High City. It wasn't particularly cold or biting, but it was chill, an energetic tingle against the exposed skin which the warming months had tricked the people into showing. It was a calming wind, which buffed the clouds from the sky and left nothing but the jewel-studded vault of night, the majesty of the stars fading slowly into view as the magenta sunset bled away from the horizon. It was an evening to set a poet's mind racing, a lover's heart beating; it was a night which could have calmed a raging warrior and turned them into a momentary ascetic.
Naturally, Imogen Ward was inside, cleaning.
There are only two really good times to clean a well-trafficked building; before anyone gets there, or after everyone leaves. The Theater had to be swept, mopped and de-litterfied daily, but it also required occasional deep cleanings, where every surface could be thoroughly cleansed and polished, every cushion washed and aired, and all of the hard-to-spot mold and tarnish identified and removed. Imogen preferred to do the deep cleaning in morning installments, to give herself time for Coven business in the evening, but there was no Coven business for her until she returned from her business trip to Ecith. Thus, the logic followed with happy simplicity, evening cleaning was to be preferred.
One of the intangible perks of her position was that Imogen had no direct supervisor, and could proceed as she liked. Though the janitor was famously oblivious to people, obstacles, direct conversation, fires, military coups, wars and apocalypse, Imogen was almost preternaturally attuned to the presence of grime, and could pick out a spot or stain from a hundred paces. Thus, she was left to clean as she desired; and thus, she chose to sweep the plaza directly outside of the Pfenning's great main entry as the sunset.
The Sunsinger smiled as the cool breeze worked its way through her hair, evaporating the sweat on the back of her neck and tugging at her uniform jacket. The leaves, crumpled papers and discarded tobacco products were light on the ground today, but she chose to sweep slowly anyway, enjoying the dying light playing upon the river which separated poor and powerful in the city. Well-to-do humans hustled past the plaza sporadically, wealthy traders and military officers trading searching glances.
The nobs had been like that for weeks. Imogen understood that these were men and women who lived and died on their position, but nobody seemed ready to make assumptions about how they fit in Kelgarde's new order. Each nod, each doffed hat, each furtive look- they were constantly trying to take the measure of those around them. And so, of course, they were really trying to gauge their own positions in society. After all, if Kane could simply disappear in a day, if all of his closest supporters could be killed or change their stripes so quickly, who was to say that their "family's mansion" or fancy townhouse stood on anything more than sand?
It truly seemed like an exhausting way to live.
As the stars bloomed overhead, Imogen hummed a jaunty tune which she had heard a season past, in some new master's production or another. She wasn't a professional, but her singing voice was clear and reasonably pleasant,.
"The sand slipped through the hourglass... she said softly to her broom, "And the hour of the wolves draws near at last."
It had been some tawdry ballad, a production where every piece had to be prophesy and the main couple had to die at the end, but she had liked it nonetheless because in the ending wolves killed every member of the supporting cast with absolutely no justification. It wasn't a good plot twist, of course, but the world was full of good plots. It was refreshing, to her mind, to see a story which eschewed all reason in favor of having the composer's weirdest fever dream kill every character.
"And life was good, and the sun was high..." Not terribly appropriate for sundown, but you couldn't have it all. Speaking of which, she couldn't remember how the rest of the verse went. "Ah, well. Bugger that, then."
~~~
