Dawn crept tentatively through the early mists, leaving unsightly yellow trails that gradually began to stink--well, to be more accurate, to stink more than the mists had during the night, which even in the nocturnal chill managed a smell so unearthly that it deterred tourists and nigh slew migrating birds that attempted to travel over the swamp-bound city. As the day progressed, the unearthly smell would graduate to an unholy odor, eventually being promoted to an ungodly stink, which subsequently, would move beyond the realms of scent and become a hideous lesion on the figurative tongue of the city and an abominable taste in every creature's actual mouth. However, as the day was young and still relatively naive, the smell remained relatively mild, though for how much longer, only the long-suffering citizens knew for certain.
These self-same citizens were already long at work by this time, as most rose early to avoid the midday taste, during which most everyone would take their daily groanings. (Much as equatorial tending regions enjoy their siestas, citizens of Terrace enjoy complaining loudly to each other to help distract themselves the the area's scourge--the heat in the tropics, the taste in Terrace.) For this reason, the city bustled well before the sickly dawn awoke, streets lit by the ghostly light of the swamp, and more reliably, by concentrated swamp-gas lanterns that hung at regular intervals throughout the city. Bakers baked, butchers butchered, candlestick makers made. And, presumably, everyone else did something or another along the lines of a profession, somewhere around the grey area that might tentatively be passed off as the law in Terrace. Others practiced professions well beyond the grey and into the colorful region of things certain elderly persons disapproved of--though in a very quiet way. Not many dared to raise the issue of immorality (or illegality) in Terrace. There was never any telling who's uncle you might insult when discussing good vs evil, and even the most morally minded Teracite knows that vengeance is the most moral of moral actions.
Globus was then engaged in just the sort of thing some persons might quietly disagree with--namely armed robbery. Unfortunately, he'd just realized he might be a little out of his league.
"Say that again."
"Y-you're money o-or--"
These self-same citizens were already long at work by this time, as most rose early to avoid the midday taste, during which most everyone would take their daily groanings. (Much as equatorial tending regions enjoy their siestas, citizens of Terrace enjoy complaining loudly to each other to help distract themselves the the area's scourge--the heat in the tropics, the taste in Terrace.) For this reason, the city bustled well before the sickly dawn awoke, streets lit by the ghostly light of the swamp, and more reliably, by concentrated swamp-gas lanterns that hung at regular intervals throughout the city. Bakers baked, butchers butchered, candlestick makers made. And, presumably, everyone else did something or another along the lines of a profession, somewhere around the grey area that might tentatively be passed off as the law in Terrace. Others practiced professions well beyond the grey and into the colorful region of things certain elderly persons disapproved of--though in a very quiet way. Not many dared to raise the issue of immorality (or illegality) in Terrace. There was never any telling who's uncle you might insult when discussing good vs evil, and even the most morally minded Teracite knows that vengeance is the most moral of moral actions.
Globus was then engaged in just the sort of thing some persons might quietly disagree with--namely armed robbery. Unfortunately, he'd just realized he might be a little out of his league.
"Say that again."
"Y-you're money o-or--"
