33rd Summer 513AV. The Inner Warrens / The Suren Cliffs.
On the mountains by the sea, where Zintila had ruled and the night had glowed, there was an ever constant breeze and coolness, the wind whistling through the ravines between peaks, gusts from Zulrav echoing through the crystal streets. In Denval, where rubble surrounded the people on every side, hemmed in by land and sea, the water was right there, a beckoning lover offering release from the grips of summer, only a short dive off the Docks into freedom. Here, in Wind Reach, where the peak of Mt. Skyinarta reached up to the heavens, and stone grew like leaves and living things, there was no such release.
Johanne had tried to work. She really had. But to crush wooden pulp, harvested by Dek and lumberjacks from the trees around the forest and Thunder bay, was difficult at the best of times. On a day with sweltering heat, it was even worse. Johanne's hands clenched on a press, turning the stile with all the strength she had, which was not much to begin with. Round and round she pulled it, sweat dripping off her brow into the iron bucket before her, where the mechanism crushed up the wood into a water and sugar mixture. Her wrists were aching and her neck was stiff with tension, and focus. With a sigh, she released the turnstile and collapsed into the chair behind her.
The Craft Gallery was all but deserted, Johanne one of the very few at their station. struggling to fulfil their orders while the air around them seemed as dense as molasses. It was too hot, and Johanne had yet to adapt Wind Reach dress, still wearing the floor-length dress from Lhavit, with the sleeves rolled up and the bustier tied around her waist. The cotton, damp with sweat, stuck to her skin. It was useless. Leaving her station as messy as anything, Johanne struggled out of the door, her work behind her and forgotten.
The Inner Warrens were not much cooler. No breeze flowed through the stone corridors, and the stone itself held no coolness that provided relief. To venture outside seemed exhausting. She envied those in Thunder Bay, who worked by the Bay and frolicked in the waters whenever they needed to cool down: or so she thought, having never been to the place. She spotted a stone slab, that Johanne thought was a bench but was truly a bed for the Drudges, who did not deserve even a straw mattress according to the higher castes. Something that baffled Johanne but she did not have the courage nor the right to speak out against it. Instead she simply followed their lead, avoiding the Dek and feeling terrible for doing so.
Johanne collapsed onto the stone slab, lying down and resting her forehead against the stone, hoping to find some relief. Her face was red and slick with sweat, and a sweat stain gathered in the back of her dress. Her hair wild, Johanne did all she could not to melt away in the heat. It would be a most unbecoming way to die.
xOn the mountains by the sea, where Zintila had ruled and the night had glowed, there was an ever constant breeze and coolness, the wind whistling through the ravines between peaks, gusts from Zulrav echoing through the crystal streets. In Denval, where rubble surrounded the people on every side, hemmed in by land and sea, the water was right there, a beckoning lover offering release from the grips of summer, only a short dive off the Docks into freedom. Here, in Wind Reach, where the peak of Mt. Skyinarta reached up to the heavens, and stone grew like leaves and living things, there was no such release.
Johanne had tried to work. She really had. But to crush wooden pulp, harvested by Dek and lumberjacks from the trees around the forest and Thunder bay, was difficult at the best of times. On a day with sweltering heat, it was even worse. Johanne's hands clenched on a press, turning the stile with all the strength she had, which was not much to begin with. Round and round she pulled it, sweat dripping off her brow into the iron bucket before her, where the mechanism crushed up the wood into a water and sugar mixture. Her wrists were aching and her neck was stiff with tension, and focus. With a sigh, she released the turnstile and collapsed into the chair behind her.
The Craft Gallery was all but deserted, Johanne one of the very few at their station. struggling to fulfil their orders while the air around them seemed as dense as molasses. It was too hot, and Johanne had yet to adapt Wind Reach dress, still wearing the floor-length dress from Lhavit, with the sleeves rolled up and the bustier tied around her waist. The cotton, damp with sweat, stuck to her skin. It was useless. Leaving her station as messy as anything, Johanne struggled out of the door, her work behind her and forgotten.
The Inner Warrens were not much cooler. No breeze flowed through the stone corridors, and the stone itself held no coolness that provided relief. To venture outside seemed exhausting. She envied those in Thunder Bay, who worked by the Bay and frolicked in the waters whenever they needed to cool down: or so she thought, having never been to the place. She spotted a stone slab, that Johanne thought was a bench but was truly a bed for the Drudges, who did not deserve even a straw mattress according to the higher castes. Something that baffled Johanne but she did not have the courage nor the right to speak out against it. Instead she simply followed their lead, avoiding the Dek and feeling terrible for doing so.
Johanne collapsed onto the stone slab, lying down and resting her forehead against the stone, hoping to find some relief. Her face was red and slick with sweat, and a sweat stain gathered in the back of her dress. Her hair wild, Johanne did all she could not to melt away in the heat. It would be a most unbecoming way to die.
