Post by Fair on Feb 12, 2017 21:01:23 GMT
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There was something strange about the Upper District. It was almost Utopian. Fair had both seen and lived in the worst this city had to offer; she knew it was the fate of many to live in that way. In the slums, people were dying, pissing, fighting in the streets, and no one paid any mind. The roads were more muck and debris than anything else. The doorways of homes seemed a point away from collapse, much like the people who lived within them.
The Upper district, however? Houses of white stone, streets paved smooth with rock and brick and tile. Not a spec of dust was to be seen here. The homes were mostly quiet. No one mingled on the streets. Nobles were in the habit of using carriages, not their own two feet to get from place to place. This place bled money. one might crane their ears enough to hear the clinking of coin instead of water when a faucet opened, though, maybe that was an exaggeration.
Fair wasn't in the habit of waiting anyone just for their situation. And she did not hate nobles. In fact she sometimes relished her visits here, as it seemed like some kind of new world, mysterious and cold. Then it hit her what this place reminded her of. It was quarantine. White on white-textureless, pure. Nobility were keeping themselves isolated. Isolated from the lower creatures below.
Her pawpads met chilly ground. Flat and tasteless. The air here held nothing. The world had been washed away. It became clear to her that she fit here. Not in how she acted or how much money she had. She fit in the aesthetic sense. White fur against white houses. She was no more alive here than the statues which frequently adorned the buildings she passed.
...
―avenoir―
(n). the desire that memory could flow backwards
(n). the desire that memory could flow backwards
There was something strange about the Upper District. It was almost Utopian. Fair had both seen and lived in the worst this city had to offer; she knew it was the fate of many to live in that way. In the slums, people were dying, pissing, fighting in the streets, and no one paid any mind. The roads were more muck and debris than anything else. The doorways of homes seemed a point away from collapse, much like the people who lived within them.
The Upper district, however? Houses of white stone, streets paved smooth with rock and brick and tile. Not a spec of dust was to be seen here. The homes were mostly quiet. No one mingled on the streets. Nobles were in the habit of using carriages, not their own two feet to get from place to place. This place bled money. one might crane their ears enough to hear the clinking of coin instead of water when a faucet opened, though, maybe that was an exaggeration.
Fair wasn't in the habit of waiting anyone just for their situation. And she did not hate nobles. In fact she sometimes relished her visits here, as it seemed like some kind of new world, mysterious and cold. Then it hit her what this place reminded her of. It was quarantine. White on white-textureless, pure. Nobility were keeping themselves isolated. Isolated from the lower creatures below.
Her pawpads met chilly ground. Flat and tasteless. The air here held nothing. The world had been washed away. It became clear to her that she fit here. Not in how she acted or how much money she had. She fit in the aesthetic sense. White fur against white houses. She was no more alive here than the statues which frequently adorned the buildings she passed.
...
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