The streets of Narystith are paved with flakes of glass and ash. Their occupants pick their way through the litter with slow drifting steps, a discomfiting meld of lurching-flowing between clutters and half shards. Blackened and tottering buildings stand beside, with remnants of broken lights and mangled plastics adjoining, and useless scraps from posters long crumbled adhered to the walls, edges riffling faintly with wind. Meandering the crooked alleyways, prowling down dilapidated neighborhoods and desolate thoroughfares, they are slow and fathomless in their purpose, alien and drear.
From four to seven feet, the sparse streets see giants dwarves and men in sparse uniform measure, whose limbs grow then shrink precariously into the shadows when the cold gray air blurs with trails of stirring ash. Upon their various extremities they wear copper and gold, the spangles and rings and hoops of their customs, in fact, the only lively ornaments to their ashen skin. Some are seen milling about open structures, the dried fountains and junked cafes that intersperse the streets; rarely do they interfere, when they do seem to engage, their limbs gesture in an almost human manner, and in a wide vicinity one is feels a faint buzzing sensation. However, the sounds are difficult to make out beyond a certain distance, currently my best impression has been inconstant and indescribable.
Here in the lower cities, the homes are their dwellings, but one rarely sees them within, as any occupied room has its curtains drawn, and there is no pattern to when they emerge. I have seen gaunts enter a stairwell never to emerge again, and as well as emerge from houses which have seen no activity for weeks. Sometimes, an unpleasant buzzing can be heard from some of the upper floors, sometimes fleeting shadows flicker behind their windows. Confirming, perhaps, that there are indeed gaunts present within.
Rarely two or more gaunts will enter into a dwelling together, though I would believe it to indicate a marital custom it is likely a coincidence.
As ominous and uncomfortable as the whole of it seems, the scene in the lower city is quite tame. I have captured much of its essence in broad strokes, at least that which is discernible from a distance. A closer examination seems feasible, and I am determined to make it, but will require much careful planning. But one must not be mistaken in believing the remainder of the city to be similarly disposed. I have heard great tortured howls coming from sectors further in, shrill and screeching, fiery and guttural, and low rasping echoes in the night I would not believe came from any living man or beast. The gaunts gather in groups more often there, some even appear to patrol the streets. I have traced pipes and machinery in parts of the contours, and they are active, though I do not know their purpose. Whatever rationale lies motivates the heightened state of that ward of is likely to remain impenetrable for many years to come.
But I can at least provide some description of the architecture. Wintry gales sweep from down central heights, sweeping dust and chill in their wake. The city spirals upward in stages to the south, culminating in a great concrete bastion punctuated with recessed windows and etched ridged ledges. Even in the distance, it stands apart, and looms with the cold regard of a dwelling untenable to humanity. Surrounding it the buildings are larger and more varied than in the lower city, though not by much. There appear many variations of marble mansions, other constructions of granite and concrete indiscernible from here. I have seen slim clouds form near the roofs. Forgetting the underlying reality, it can be rather picturesque.
Only on a rare good day, when trails of sunlight peer out paper-thin from a straining sky, and the streets shimmer with tiny lights from the dew-strewn glass, does the pallor lift a little. Beneath stripped awnings, chairs, shops, appliances sit mostly unattended, peaceful rather than lifeless under this more gentle, abundant light, even charming in spite of the ash speckling every surface. On the streets, swaying bangles glint unnaturally bright. The citizens themselves are unperturbed. If they seem to amble and choose their steps with a greater heft or alacrity it can surely only be the healthier weather. On these days, the ash-strewn breeze carries with it a whisper of melting snow from the south-side mountain wall, and the few wind-chimes scattered throughout ring out almost prettily, extricated of most of their usual ominous bent. It feels as if a certain life enters the dead city, one evocative and incongruous. Welcome as it is, one cannot help but wonder whose dream it is.