Charlie sat on the wall of a fountain in one of the squares in the city. He enjoyed the city, it's street theatre, letting the days go by. To his right was a café. He had tried to purchase a decent cup of tea there but what they gave him was an overstewed cup of milky water. So he wasn't buying tea from there again, but the caramel beignets they made were good, so he sat on the fountain, reading a book, eating the sugary treat. The book was in latin, a copy of Guido Aliquamuta's Inceptor est scriptor rector ut pedicabo in stercore. A bit of a mouthful of a title, but an insightful piece to how people interacted in new environments. To his right was a small grocery shop, and, on the row of houses behind that, a homeless shelter.
Charlie always found it strange that, on an island where magic was free and public, where someone could do anything, there was still homelessness. And that some of the students lived in that shelter. He was sure, that, if any student asked him, he could find them some form of roof over their head. But more often than not, he felt that many may still be too prideful to ask for help.
So charlie sat and watched the scenery. He watched the strange little man in the green hat move something strange in a box into an alleyway, the crocatta scout, fresh from a mission, slip into a butchers, and several other faces, some familiar others foreign, mill through the square. It was mid afternoon, the early Autumn sun lighting up the square in a vivid gold, before he finished his book and placed it into the sachel. He had long since finished his beignet, so he folded up the sticky napkin and placed it into a bin. He could feel something, something undead in the square. It was strange, necromancy. It was weaved into every bone in his body, keeping him alive, and it called out to others. So he looked around the square for who it might be...
@Kathinja
Charlie always found it strange that, on an island where magic was free and public, where someone could do anything, there was still homelessness. And that some of the students lived in that shelter. He was sure, that, if any student asked him, he could find them some form of roof over their head. But more often than not, he felt that many may still be too prideful to ask for help.
So charlie sat and watched the scenery. He watched the strange little man in the green hat move something strange in a box into an alleyway, the crocatta scout, fresh from a mission, slip into a butchers, and several other faces, some familiar others foreign, mill through the square. It was mid afternoon, the early Autumn sun lighting up the square in a vivid gold, before he finished his book and placed it into the sachel. He had long since finished his beignet, so he folded up the sticky napkin and placed it into a bin. He could feel something, something undead in the square. It was strange, necromancy. It was weaved into every bone in his body, keeping him alive, and it called out to others. So he looked around the square for who it might be...
@Kathinja
That sense of something undead came from the blue-haired woman who was digging through a garbage can in a ragged coat and torn jeans.