Elara Mosswhisker stepped off the gangplank onto the stone of Fishminister’s Dock just after sunrise. The air was damp, carrying the smells of salt, fish offal, and coal smoke. Her boots clicked against the wet cobbles as she adjusted the strap of her leather satchel, its weight familiar but no longer reassuring. She paused for a moment, surveying the dock. Dockhands in heavy canvas coats were unloading crates, while gulls circled overhead, calling to one another. A nearby signpost read "Fishminister’s Dock – Zone 4," but offered no further guidance.
Turning slowly, she took in her surroundings: the rows of warehouses behind her, the open market to the east, and a narrow road leading inland, flanked by lampposts still lit in the morning haze. Without a clear destination and minimal instructions, she began walking, opting for the inland road by default. The buildings grew taller as she moved away from the water, and the streets became narrower. Signs were sparse, some written in a script she didn’t recognize.
She passed a clock tower with no hands and a bulletin board cluttered with stamped proclamations, most sealed with the insignia of the Ministry of Niceties. She paused to scan the notices. One mentioned a public reading of *The Saturday Evening Smelt* at 10:00 in the Trenches, while another listed penalties for distributing unlicensed information. She did not linger.
The slope of the street changed, descending slightly. The buildings here were older, their stonework stained and weathered. The air felt heavier. Elara realized she was entering a lower district—likely the Slups, based on the maps she had studied. Retracing her steps, she returned to the last intersection, taking a different fork this time, one that rose slightly and led toward a cluster of administrative-looking structures in the distance. The road was better lit, and the cobbles were cleaner.
As she continued forward, a pair of figures in charcoal coats passed her—Unsmudgables, she assumed, based on their insignia. They did not acknowledge her. Remaining alert and observant, one paw resting on the strap of her satchel, she continued on her way. She did not speak. She did not ask for help. Not yet. She'd walk around a bit before her stubborn pride would allow her to ask for directions, but it would be sorely welcomed if anyone happened to walk up.
Turning slowly, she took in her surroundings: the rows of warehouses behind her, the open market to the east, and a narrow road leading inland, flanked by lampposts still lit in the morning haze. Without a clear destination and minimal instructions, she began walking, opting for the inland road by default. The buildings grew taller as she moved away from the water, and the streets became narrower. Signs were sparse, some written in a script she didn’t recognize.
She passed a clock tower with no hands and a bulletin board cluttered with stamped proclamations, most sealed with the insignia of the Ministry of Niceties. She paused to scan the notices. One mentioned a public reading of *The Saturday Evening Smelt* at 10:00 in the Trenches, while another listed penalties for distributing unlicensed information. She did not linger.
The slope of the street changed, descending slightly. The buildings here were older, their stonework stained and weathered. The air felt heavier. Elara realized she was entering a lower district—likely the Slups, based on the maps she had studied. Retracing her steps, she returned to the last intersection, taking a different fork this time, one that rose slightly and led toward a cluster of administrative-looking structures in the distance. The road was better lit, and the cobbles were cleaner.
As she continued forward, a pair of figures in charcoal coats passed her—Unsmudgables, she assumed, based on their insignia. They did not acknowledge her. Remaining alert and observant, one paw resting on the strap of her satchel, she continued on her way. She did not speak. She did not ask for help. Not yet. She'd walk around a bit before her stubborn pride would allow her to ask for directions, but it would be sorely welcomed if anyone happened to walk up.