As Above So Below
09-25-07, 08:43 PM
When you look into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you.
Friedrich Nietzsche
Corone had been changed in the last month. Near the docks, overlooking the industrial sections of the outer rim by the sea, a small flat was for rent. It had been occupied for years now, though the state of which had been abandoned would never have given that away. A few meager possessions had been put to the roadside for scavengers and the city to cart away, all the papers and blueprints that had been neatly stacked and filed in the small study were burned. There had been so many papers that even days afterwards, the hearth was littered with fragments of surviving parchment, and a warmth that did little to beset the strange cold of Andres Adiran's disappearance feebly refused to leave.
Across town, where Stable Row's smell kept most from wandering, a small forge sat empty. The steel and iron that graced the walls and the crates stacked away from the pit were all cold, and not a single coal glowed warm. It was upon the sandy floor that Trenton Flint had made his mark, in scuffed prints that were unmarred. None had come calling while the smoke remained absent from the chimneys. None had come at all, for that was how a lone worksmith's life was.
None had noticed, while so much had changed.
Friedrich Nietzsche
Corone had been changed in the last month. Near the docks, overlooking the industrial sections of the outer rim by the sea, a small flat was for rent. It had been occupied for years now, though the state of which had been abandoned would never have given that away. A few meager possessions had been put to the roadside for scavengers and the city to cart away, all the papers and blueprints that had been neatly stacked and filed in the small study were burned. There had been so many papers that even days afterwards, the hearth was littered with fragments of surviving parchment, and a warmth that did little to beset the strange cold of Andres Adiran's disappearance feebly refused to leave.
Across town, where Stable Row's smell kept most from wandering, a small forge sat empty. The steel and iron that graced the walls and the crates stacked away from the pit were all cold, and not a single coal glowed warm. It was upon the sandy floor that Trenton Flint had made his mark, in scuffed prints that were unmarred. None had come calling while the smoke remained absent from the chimneys. None had come at all, for that was how a lone worksmith's life was.
None had noticed, while so much had changed.