Footsteps Upon Grey Skies

[Scheherazade]

Tick, tick, tick, tick...

The incessant click of gears turning was too much. It was not alien, nor strange, but ineffably irritating, causing the aristocrat to wake from his tortured slumber. His fingers tore along his receded hairline, trying to itch the burning questions in his head. The human rose from his bed, not noticing the ticks stopping for fractions of a second longer than they should. When the ticking rhythm resumed in full key, they would wake three less people that night.

The morning hence, newspapers were flung haphazardly on every doorstep. An unusual occurrence, considering the intense dedication of the mail-boy, who'd been known to spend hours on end practicing his tosses. The neighbourhood, itself, was covered in a thick smog, obfuscating its residents whether they wished for it or not. Ed'aldem City, or, simply 'Dalem' by its civilians, was eerily silent. Nobody walked the streets, save for stray animals and the odd gremlin harvesting whatever cupris they could find; the currency was becoming scarce nowadays, and gaining in value-- especially in Teslan, where it could be sold for an exorbitant amount to a desperate Wisp trying to finish an experiment, or a Goliath trying to finish a building job.

One of the gremlins passed an apartment that seemed much newer than the rest, a recent addition that did not have the same gothic architecture of the nearby buildings. Within this building was a firebrand of a woman, aged 29 in her years, completely muddled in the mind from a bout of heavy boozing the night previous. Her hair, a deep scarlet in colour, with stray strands of black here and there, was laying about her shoulders in an askew mess. Her eyes were visibly ringed, and a paperback copy of “Enrique: The Manly Goliath and the Elven Concubine Chronicles” laid dog-eared on a makeshift bedside counter, fabricated from milk crates and a sheet of metal. Still dressed in her nightgown, Alynne Ra-Yessiv stumbled out of bed, trying to clear her mind of confusion.

Alynne staggered her way into the water closet, as a deluge of steam greeted her. Two of the fanpipes were broken, causing the other pipes to overheat. Fortunately, they were not to critical levels, and the WC was still fully utilisable. She slumped against the sink, punching the control panel. The mirror cupboard opened obediently, and Alynne grabbed a few tablets of Aspirin, throwing them down her throat with a water chaser. She turned the shower on, giving it a moment to heat up while she headed to her closet. Pulling out a standard fare brown and red striped shirt, along with a heavy bind (so as to keep her chest out of the way—she’d been used to wearing one on the force, as many dwarven women had to, thanks to their excessive proportions characteristic of their race), she placed them on the bed. Crouching down, she grabbed hold of a pair of well-worn jeans, doing the same. Piles of paperwork laid strewn in the depths of her closet, never again meant to see the light of day.

A fan blew the misty, muggy air into her bedroom, tantalising her nose with a familiar scent; her father was often prone to working outside, and, as such, the sometimes-ineffably terrible smells stuck to his skin like a badger to a shining fleck of silver. Shaking her head of nostalgia, she entered the shower, lazily tossing her nightgown to the floor nearby. The shower itself was covered in grime, and required the user to stand while using it; a cumbersome ordeal, at times. Alynne had again and again promised herself to clean the apartment in which she made her home, but, bounty hunting came first.

Thirty minutes hence, Alynne left the warm embrace of the hot water, settling down with “The Druidic Love Quest” and a cup of black coffee. The odd smog refused to recede, but harmed her naught, so, she thought nothing of it.
‘It’s hiding the sun. Must be giving those elves a bleedin’ whirl.’ She mused in her head, a wry grin playing across the edges of her lips. Finishing her coffee, she tossed the romance story to the side, and decided to finally get dressed. Her hair had finally dried, and as such, she combed it into a respectable fashion. Wrapping the bind around her chest and tightening it, she made sure it didn’t restrict her breathing too heavily before setting upon the rest of her clothes. Alynne quickly tossed on the shirt and pants, sliding on sneakers and her pendant as she headed out the door. Kicking a slot on her mailbox, a small niche below her house expelled the very tip of a naval cutlass. Alynne grasped the sheathe, and, pulling the cutlass, she found her pistol along with it. Holstering both, she slammed her door shut, and set about her daily routine, her apartment fading into the mist.