Off white spanned across a sky where a bright, white sun, struggled to peer through thick clouds. Streams of blue bled in between the small gaps, while snow lazily drifted in the air, covering the land below in a thick and tall layer.
And yet, while the snow brought along with it an unrelenting cold, many roamed the streets of a city that stood the test of time. Their advancements in architecture with the arrival of a stone age, carrying medieval undertones in the cracked, chiseled bricks, erecting fortified manors and larger homes than that of Thalamar's, was a clear tell of prosperity and a growing population.
While people of all looks and demeanours, most notably varied by their strikingly pristine and fancy clothing—as if everyone was of some notable lineage—and the business they conducted, this part of the city was merely the outskirts. Large watch towers, reaching high into the sky, integrated into a wall that bordered the citizens, housed watchful eyes that kept track of any one person or thing that would enter or exit through black metal gates that dug into the ground.
Off in the distance, where everything that was once a lush green now buried in the gathering snow, two figures marched towards the gates that separated the world from the city, each one heaving forth a brown bag easily comparable to their stature.
One of them wore a long black coat that reached to the shins, grazing along the surface of the snow, leaving behind a trail like a snail. An equally black hood, edges flaring outwards, shielded the head from the onslaught of snow, along with a face mask that only revealed brown eyes that scoured the land and reflected the plain white all around.
The other wore dark, full plate armour, his presence intimidating. Intricate engravings and ornamental designs spanned down from the chestplate to the greaves. The chestplate was layered with overlapping plates that offered as much protection as possible around the vital organs, while large, angular pauldrons provided full protection over the shoulders. Its most prominent takeaway, however, was an intricately designed helm, with symmetrical curves engraved around the faceplate, each side coming together like a crest shield to create a thin edge running down the centre.
Each step they took, the rustling of metal and the sound of cloth gently grazing the surface of snow called out into the silence of the open land, where no animal nor person bothered to approach.
The snow quickly covered their tracks, and soon, they would near the gates, watching as a guard, wearing sleek and glossy white armour, would run along the bulwark of the gate and pull a lever. Following the pull, the black gates would slowly split apart, granting passage for the two who were growing weary as they heaved the brown bags past the gates, finally entering the streets that had been shoveled by the custodians that were hard at work.
As they walked through the streets, the chorus of voices that gathered in the market place drowned out the sounds of their heavy bags that dragged along the ground. They stopped for a moment to rest, observing the densely populated street, where every single market stand and shop was filled with eager buyers trying to haggle for lower prices.
All but one. A singular structure, small and two stories high, had only four men standing outside its doors, taking refuge from the snow under a canopy as they talked. Three of them were tall and lanky, adorned in clothing of differing colours. One wore full maroon red, another wore full navy blue, and the last wore full forest green as they gathered around a stubby, fat man, who wore a monocle and a large, black mustache that curved upward. He had a bald head, save for the sides with brown, tidy hair.
Adding on to the fat man's appearance was a brown waistcoat, designed with curling floral images, that the buttons struggled to hold together, worn over a white shirt and brown trousers.
Standing in the middle of the street, the clothed one looked to the armoured one, his head just barely failing to reach the pauldrons, flashing his brows as he remained silent.
The armoured one shrugged, his rattling armour an answer that he didn't provide, giving a quick jerk with his head towards the four men. He quickly lifted the bag, letting it hang over his shoulder as he continued towards them.
The clothed one looked down as he shook his head, before hastily following, watching as the armoured one walked up the few stone steps towards the small structure and dropped the bag on the stone porch, letting a heavy thud interrupt the men's conversation.
The three lanky men turned back, revealing three stern faces that wore large, curling mustaches as they lightly frowned. The fat man rubbed his hands together and smiled from ear to ear, though that was only discernable from the boldened lines around his mustache that covered his mouth and his glistening eyes.
The fat man cleared his voice. "Gentlemen," he said, revealing a rough voice, "may we continue this discussion another time?"
"Certainly," said the man in red attire with his plummy and posh voice, stuck in a staring contest with the armoured one as his frown only grew deeper, as did the creases around his squinting eyes that searched for any eye slits on the helm, though none were apparent. He looked back at the fat man, breaking off from the unwinnable contest. "Shall morning of the morrow prove fitting?"
"Why, of course! 'Till the morrow then," the fat man offered each of them a nod, fixing his monocle as he added, "gentlemen."
The three men held up two fingers, raising it to their foreheads as if they were going to salute, tapping their heads lightly as they turned away and made for the street.
The clothed one, who stood at the base of the steps, moved out of the way, offering them a nod, though he was met with no response, not even a glance, not even a peer out of the corner of their eyes. Shaking his head, he walked up the steps, and just like the armoured one, he dropped the bag onto the ground, taking some time to crack his fingers that were enveloped in fine, black leather gloves that wrapped tightly around.
The fat man stepped forward, steepling his fingers as his raised brows revealed at least ten wrinkles on his forehead, staring down at the bags like a child in a candy shop. He quickly looked up, taking a look side to side as he leaned forward and whispered, "Did you get it?"
They both nodded once.
"Excellent work!" he hissed, before running off with his stubby legs towards the door, grabbing a curved handle that reached his chest, and pulling it open for them. "Come now, there is much to settle!"
The armoured one looked down to the clothed one, who was already looking at him, before they both returned their gazes to the brown bags, followed by slouching shoulders. Without any more delay, they picked up the brown bags and stepped into the building, where only darkness awaited them.
The sound of a switch being flipped followed, and in an instant, bright lights flashed from a chandelier adorned with glass all around it, expunging the darkness.
The interior offered a warm and welcoming aura, decorated by many wooden furnishings no matter where one looked. Now it made sense why it looked different from the other shops and manors—this was a tavern, not some place people came to buy an advertised product. And unlike the cold and unwelcoming stone exterior, the floors and walls were fashioned out of birch wood grain planks.
Off to the left was a bar stand, and behind it, countless bottles, slotted into diamond racks fitted along the wall, had their corks facing the stand. Many wooden stools rested neatly under the tabletop, perfectly spaced out, awaiting any who wanted to stop by for a drink.
Off to the right were several round tables, green cloth draping over their edge, each with four chairs laid around and a singular hanging light above. A deck of cards rested along each table, waiting for someone to come and bet their life away over a silly game.
And further into the back stood a singular door, where the corner on the right had stairs leading to the second level. The two slowly walked across the tavern floor, listening to the creaky steps as their eyes scoured everything in sight. They watched as the fat man raced across the tavern, passing in between them with his heavy, yet quick, pitter-patter, forcing the creaking plank floor to groan under his weight.
The fat man pushed open the door, urging the two to hurry up as he gestured with his hand and said, "Quick now! I don't want anyone to see!"
The clothed one shook his head, before they picked up the pace, entering a new room that already had its lights turned on.
This room, while it appeared the same in terms of a plank floor and walls, was different. Was it the air? Or was it the fact that nothing, save for a short, wide, dark oak desk—decorated with many rolled and empty parchments—and a large chair, occupied the dead centre of this room?
The two watched as the fat man pushed the chair to the back of the room and then the table, grunting as the table and the floor let out a scratching and grating noise.
Surely that wasn't good for the plank floors.
But after enough pushing, the fat man stopped to wipe beads of sweat from his forehead, taking many deep breaths as he held up a finger.
"I am spent," he said, still exhausted from the arduous task of pushing a desk, kneeling as he flipped open a trap door, revealing a ladder leading to a basement. He chuckled, looking at the two who walked over and hopped down with the bags, as though they were oblivious to the ladder. "My thanks, friends of Niemand Bauer. I shall meet with you shortly."