Common Cause

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Fantasy Realm

Chapter 1 (v.1) - District 7

Submitted: October 10, 2017

Reads: 367

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Submitted: October 10, 2017



When the sun rises, the world is new.

Maybe you're still looking ahead at the same old picture- the same smudges and cracks where your paint runs a little thin- but when the sky runs with the blood of the day and the light pours from over the hills, it is not the same world the night took.

This is Eurise. See how the rooftops bend and twist across the horizon, silhouetted haphazardly like some ancient ruin untouched for thousands of dusty years? How the dirt tracks intersect like a beast gone mad, flailing arms cutting and diving in any odd fashion? Cross the intersection and pass by the old canal, its crumbled brick still damp with the mould of water long gone, its steep drop waiting to swallow you up when you stumble home drunk or blind from the night. It's cold this time of year. The frost creeps its icy fingernails up over your throat every time the air scrapes at your lungs and the icy fingers of lying death crawl up underneath the cracks in the stones, just waiting to catch you out that day you misstep. Stumble. 

The neighboring district peeps its head around the corner. Slowly, but most definitely, the houses are declining. The roofs lowering, walls thinning, windows with smashed in glass, and then no glass at all but just a simple array of damp, knotted rags hung from rotted beams and crumbled plaster. Then nothing at all.

This is Yveske. There are no houses here. Solemn arcs of leaning birch trees wither and freeze in the dry, cracked earth, their leaves turned to brown mush beneath them. In the summer it's almost pretty. When they stand tall, leaves erupting in lush green splendour in the warm summer breeze.

Too bad the summer doesn't come anymore.

And so here were are. District 7. Shacks pushed together from card and metal sheets. Makeshift shops hidden away behind the main streets, the packed earth of the floor concealing crates of susteranto and liquour, distinguished only by the luxury of tin roofing and the lingering smell of vomit.

But when the sun rises over the shanty houses and the lurking strangers in the dark are mere hedgerows once again, the day is new. Maybe it's still a wreck. Maybe it's still a deathtrap. But with every passing second, who knows what could happen?

Because things can never stay the same, no matter how hard you try.


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