Shapethrower's Nook

The old wood panels of this wing seem to creak as you step through a tightly placed set of shelves and into a small room. There is an armchair patterned in what a nicer person might call "An attrocity to anyone with eyes". A few stacks of papers and books strewn about the space, on one of the panels near the terrible chair there is a sticky note, it reads:


If you've found this, you likely shouldn't be here.
I can't throw you out, obviously, but please try to keep things in one place.

It is signed with a quickly drawn sketch roughly appearing to be a somewhat worried looking cat.

There was something truly ineffable about the mornings.

So many that were cold and misty, where the aqueous fire rang early from the ports, guiding the Starfarers home. The city at times seemed to breathe like an animal, exhaling in the morning, making its sorts notice all that it had within its bounds, the clergy padding along the road and speaking among themselves in hushed theological debate, the markets, slowly alive in speech and quiet song, and the gardens which seemed to spread from every home, every space left untouched by oath of the law. It was somnolent and sweet as it was expansive – but that’s simply how the mornings were.

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