Post by Nascha on Sept 8, 2019 18:34:58 GMT
Even in Waterdeep, there are wilds.
Mistshore was one such place. Once, it was simply the northern part of the riotous Dock Ward. Now, the space had fallen into ruin and disrepair. Waterdeep was a city in a state of constant renewal. Parts of it died, other parts were reborn. Some of it was allowed to slough away, and to a certain extent the city was self-immunising as a result. Those parts of it which were considered too dangerous or lawless to be properly safe and ruled were simply avoided by most, until such a time as they were ready to be reintegrated into the whole again.
A wild space of mouldering ships and foul-smelling water, populated by vermin of both the literal and metaphorical sort. People wound up here for all sorts of reasons. Some just wanted a space where they could be certain there would be no interference from the Guard, or indeed any city official. Respectable souls did not come to Mistshore – except when they were being anything other than respectable.
Or when they were lost. Or down on their luck.
Naturally, the only time to come to Mistshore was as the sun was going down. The mist that the place was named after rose amongst the ruined hulls, and people began to emerge from them, as though they were too ashamed for the sun to witness their actions in this place of perpetual poverty and misery.
And amongst it all there was a single soul who seemed, at once, to both fit in and very much stand out.
She looked as though she fitted in because she was clad in a long, flowing cloak of soft grey material. The hood was pulled up tight over her head, obscuring her face, and stylized with a pair of ‘ears’ projecting from it. The kind of cloak one would wear so that it was the cloak that was remembered, not the person beneath it – very understandable in a place like this.
She did not fit in because where others were shuffling off about their work, she was… fishing? Perched on the edge of a decrepit hull, she’d lowered a thick rope down into the water, and now she was reeling it back in.
What she pulled out of the harbour could technically be called water, in the sense that it came from the ocean and was, at least nominally, liquid. But it stank. Putrid and awful, the fluid inside was a dark greyish-brown, difficult to make out in the clouded night. The figure held it up to her eyes, and gave it a good shake, staring into the depths as though pondering some inscrutable, elusive element within the murky depths.
Mistshore was one such place. Once, it was simply the northern part of the riotous Dock Ward. Now, the space had fallen into ruin and disrepair. Waterdeep was a city in a state of constant renewal. Parts of it died, other parts were reborn. Some of it was allowed to slough away, and to a certain extent the city was self-immunising as a result. Those parts of it which were considered too dangerous or lawless to be properly safe and ruled were simply avoided by most, until such a time as they were ready to be reintegrated into the whole again.
A wild space of mouldering ships and foul-smelling water, populated by vermin of both the literal and metaphorical sort. People wound up here for all sorts of reasons. Some just wanted a space where they could be certain there would be no interference from the Guard, or indeed any city official. Respectable souls did not come to Mistshore – except when they were being anything other than respectable.
Or when they were lost. Or down on their luck.
Naturally, the only time to come to Mistshore was as the sun was going down. The mist that the place was named after rose amongst the ruined hulls, and people began to emerge from them, as though they were too ashamed for the sun to witness their actions in this place of perpetual poverty and misery.
And amongst it all there was a single soul who seemed, at once, to both fit in and very much stand out.
She looked as though she fitted in because she was clad in a long, flowing cloak of soft grey material. The hood was pulled up tight over her head, obscuring her face, and stylized with a pair of ‘ears’ projecting from it. The kind of cloak one would wear so that it was the cloak that was remembered, not the person beneath it – very understandable in a place like this.
She did not fit in because where others were shuffling off about their work, she was… fishing? Perched on the edge of a decrepit hull, she’d lowered a thick rope down into the water, and now she was reeling it back in.
What she pulled out of the harbour could technically be called water, in the sense that it came from the ocean and was, at least nominally, liquid. But it stank. Putrid and awful, the fluid inside was a dark greyish-brown, difficult to make out in the clouded night. The figure held it up to her eyes, and gave it a good shake, staring into the depths as though pondering some inscrutable, elusive element within the murky depths.
