Islet's Candor - City Description P1

Islet's Candor. Not an inert, dead thing, but a throbbing leviathan alive with spores of creation (not so much drifting through its streets, but stampeding). Even the night, a murderous strangler of many a human dwelling, could not pacify the pulsating metropolis. A cool winter breeze crept up on the unlucky lingerers, the displaced huddlers with nowhere else to go, causing them to scurry around in a frantic daze... looking for warmth. 

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Handelspolis - industrial hub/dock of Islet's Candor - and the servicemen and women are at their stalls, haphazardly scattered among the many crowded alleys that run like a network of nerves into the central districts. Workers with blackened faces and hearts buzz to stave off the infectious cold that gnaws in predatory fashion at the bones of the emaciated. 

The shriek of the vendors - avion like - as they try to market their grub to the lifeless bodies stumbling out of the factories. Exotic spices linger in the air, for as long as the wind will let them. Steam, likewise, projects up in columns from the bowls, pans, pots of all descriptions... cauldrons of revival for the soulless masses trying so hard not to part with a single penny. 

"Stew, stew, only a penny or two!" 

The cold ignites a lethargy in those workers eager to make it home. Vendors use this to their advantage, cajoling their flocks. 

The curses of the fisherman that brought in their daily haul can be heard through the open doors of the few saloons that dare to cater to the clientele found here.

The more communal minded workers, even in this weather, gather in little clusters, swilling cheap tea, more for warmth than for flavour. Their shabby clothes - thin and patchy - their warn-down shoes - beaten and broken - do little to keep the ice laden kiss of winter at bay. The individuals with prophetic stature, enigmatic demeanour preside over their respective groups, inducing messianic rapture in those huddled, listening attentively. Sermons, parables capture the imagination of the workers that relish the spiritual morsels they're being fed. More important than the tea. 

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Red Den and Nix Beckon - residential quarters for the poor - and babies are crying melodies to the young mothers that bleed hope in the dark. Squalid rooms adorned with mattresses on the floor, an odd chair or stool, and a religious idol. Not the type of place that gives birth to a soothing lullaby.

It's a place of atrophy, beauty comes here to die. 

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The Mourning Palace Nexus - governmental/financial hub - the nasty and sleek looking young men prowl around in their fancy garb, black suits and coats. They walk with purpose and direction, marching like the very passage of time... the intensity of inevitability. Such poor people that may seek a sort of refuge here are met with the dignified scowls that scream "get out of my way!", no need for words. 

Imposing buildings sleep along the streets like lazy lions, dormant with the wicked machinations, subjugating impulses of empire. 

A whole portion of the city dedicated to those that think they know best, walking through corridors of pomp. The statues of those that still think they know better, even now they're dead. 

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