"Even the faintest of whispers is as mighty as to break the stance of a prevailing silence; even a gentle zephyr can ripple the face of the waters, its depths and fathom regardless."
~
The City of Shillingston,
Kingdom of Tristendyre,
Night without moon,
The first Thursnight of the Second month,
XXI Year of Regency
The stone streets of Shillingston, city between the Imperial Castle and the town of Hazenvale, were eerier than most nights, with a few of its people making their ways homeward.
As every late evening had it, a group of ladies slowly walked on, after their meetings, making vain and leisurely conversations. Each woman had her skirt hiked to avoid the ends thereof touching the puddles of water left from Tristendyre's first rains in three months. The cold weather could not deter their uncanny will and need for a natter.
