Cecil moved cautiously, his cane tapping softly on the stone. He glanced over the various shops, his eyes alight with curiosity as many queries filled his mind.
'Strange… all the mystic shops grouped like this?' He mused. 'In most cities they would be scattered, tucked away in their own little corners of the city, not bundled together like an ordinary market square.' He tilted his head slightly, stroking his chin, considering the narrow alley as a small smile grew.
He let his eyes linger on the symbols etched above the different doorways, apotropaic sigils faded with age, that were to ward off misfortune and keep malevolent spirits at bay. Some were familiar, widely used glyphs from many different cultures and others were foreign, their meanings unclear to Cecil.
He continued on, deeper into the alley's winding path.
'Tempting as it is to begin digging into things now, I've yet to secure a place to stay. My curiosity will have to wait its turn.'
As Cecil moved deeper into the alley, the sound of the alley grew as the occasional conversations of the alley became more abundant. The air itself seemed to hold a different weight. It carried the dry bite of old herbs and the thick sweetness of incense, a layered aroma that clung to the tongue and left a faint sting in the throat. It seemed to demand a level of secrecy from those who passed by.
Eventually, the narrow alley gave way to a more open space.
Before him unfolded a modest galleria, a vaulted courtyard crowned by a grimy glass roof arched overhead that allowed some of the midday light to filter in, muted by years of unwashed soot. Stone columns, worn smooth by generations of passersby, framed the various shops. From this hidden hub, Widdershins Alley branched off into 3 other directions, narrow as the one he had emerged from, spidering out to various parts of Grandport.
This was no grand monument to architecture, no rival to the soaring halls of commerce one would find in other places of the world, such as Grandport's forums or Halcyra's renowned markets. It lacked any form of polish or elegance, to the casual observer, it would seem utterly unimpressive. But it was quiet and intentional. A tucked-away haven for mystics and hobbyists.
Cecil paused at the threshold, taking it all in. Small clusters of people gathered here and there, murmuring beneath hanging herbs or trading under faded and tattered awnings. Most of the space was left unoccupied.
He took a step into the courtyard, one hand resting lightly atop the head of his cane. His gaze drifted from one storefront to the next as he moved through the galleria, noting not just what they sold, but how they presented themselves. From bead-curtained doorways, windows fogged by incense smoke, or dried herbs hanging from their window seals.
Tucked into the far left corner of the courtyard, beneath a wooden sign depicting a sleeping fish rising over a keyhole, sat a modest establishment. The sign swung gently with creaking hinges, in the nonexistent breeze of the galleria. In faded black lettering beneath the icon read:
The Sleeping Fish
The place didn't look like much. Stone foundation, timber upper floor, and warped glass windows that allowed the warm lanternlight pour out. He crossed the courtyard and opened the wooden doors of the inn, a bell above the door giving a single chime as he entered.
The interior opened into a cozy lobby, dimly lit by wall sconces and a fire crackling gently in a corner hearth. The room was filled with a mismatched collection of chairs and tables, most of which were quietly occupied by patrons who spoke only to their companions, if they had any at all.
At the bar was an older woman with sharp gray eyes, her dark hair pulled into a tight braid threaded with copper beads, polishing glasses, most likely the innkeeper. Behind her, mounted high on the wall, hung a rugged double-barreled hunting shotgun, most likely there to intimidate unruly customers then for hunting.
She looked up as Cecil entered. Her expression was unreadable, but couldn't be called unkind either.
"Well now," she said, voice low and even, "you don't look lost, but you're not from here either. You're here for a room, I take it?"
"Yes," Cecil replied, stepping up to the counter. "I'll need a room for no less than a week, possibly longer, depending on when my vessel departs."
The woman nodded, already pulling a heavy ledger from beneath the desk. "Three Leptan a night. What name should I put it under?"
"Cecil Hollows." he said, handing over fifteen copper coins.
She jotted it down with a squeaky pen, then turned and plucked a brass key from a pegboard on the wall behind her. "Second floor. Third door on the left. The room's clean, and locks well. Meals cost extra. Keep your messes to yourself and don't break anything you can't afford to replace. That clear?"
"Crystal," Cecil said, accepting the key with a polite nod.
With no further comment he turned and made his way upstairs. The wood groaned softly under his weight. The hallway was narrow, lit by flickering old rusted wall sconces. Cecil made his way down the hall coming before the door to his room and unlocked it.
The room inside was small but well-kept. A modest bed with a firm mattress, a writing desk beside a narrow window, a small dresser, and a washbasin tucked into the corner.
He shut the door behind him and locked it. He set his suitcase down beside the bed, resting his cane against the wall, then sank into the chair at the desk. For a long moment, he sat there in silence, letting the silence take center stage, feeling the tension of travel ease from his shoulders.
Then, without urgency, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his small leather-bound notebook. Flipping through it till he reached a blank page.
From his coat, he pulled a slim pencil tucked in a small side pocket, then leaned forward and opened the narrow window above the desk.
Below, the muted bustle of the galleria moved along. He could just make out the curve of its grimy glass roof and the lanterns glowing over shop doors. The faded sign of The Sleeping Fish was visible in the corner of his eye.
His pencil moved with clean, and practiced strokes, not born of an artist's passion but rather from a practiced habit of observation and recording. He began with the courtyard: the sweeping arch of the glass ceiling, the soft fall of light on worn stone, the angled doors and curling apotropaic glyphs above them. Then came smaller vignettes: the minstrels of the Forum, the towering port board and its shifting plaques, a merchant mid-cry with arms raised dramatically, a child with their older siblings grinning as they clutched buns twice the size of their small hands left to wander the forums.
He paused, brushing away a curl of graphite dust with a gloved knuckle, then began to write in the spaces between drawings, cataloging his observations of the day.
His handwriting was refined as one would expect from a professor, each letter etched with care as he began noting the day's events.
4/28/734 4th Era
Grandport City lives up to its reputation, loud, restless, and in perpetual motion. One detail struck me, however: despite having fought for independence from the Empire, the city still operates on imperial currency.
He paused, tapping the pencil once against the side of the page, thinking about what to write.
I saw children playing with their siblings in the Forum today. There was laughter, genuine laughter. It felt like a relic. I hadn't realized how rare that sound had become in my daily routine.
I wonder how Vivian and Regulus are doing… It's been years since we last spoke.
His gaze lingered over their names before continuing:
My vessel to Stella has been delayed due to the upcoming Charterlight Festival, so I've secured lodging at an inn called The Sleeping Fish. It's tucked away in an intriguing part of the city, Widdershins Alley, a quiet little cluster of mystic shops.
The innkeeper, a sharp-eyed woman, strikes me as capable, and, for now, trustworthy.
Cecil leaned back in his chair, letting the pencil rest against the notebook, his eyes drifting to the slow coming twilight pouring from the ceiling, as his thoughts turned back to Ripley's words.
I haven't eaten since breakfast yesterday, so I'll head down for supper and inquire about the Charterlight Festival. No sense in letting time go to waste, idle hands do little but dull the mind.
I'll resume my search for Blinkwolf Eyes in the meantime. Should I leave Grandport empty-handed, I'll proceed with the Sorcerer Recipe regardless. Best to be prepared, with or without ideal ingredients, I doubt whatever those ruins might hold, will care little for one's convenience.
He shut the notebook softly, sealing the thoughts within. He slipped it back into his coat pocket before standing. He picked up his cane and stepped out of the room, locking the door behind him and headed down to the lobby.