- Invitation Status
- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per week
- Writing Levels
- Intermediate
- Adept
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Primarily Prefer Male
Marakit, while being the capital city of Umitsa, would not be considered as such a high ranking place by those who came from other regions of the world. Someone along the ancestry line of his current majesty, Sir Galdt Jespersen, and also predecessor on the throne, had made the decision to divide the settlement into different districts for the sake of keeping stinky forges and other difficult industries away from more residential areas. It was something that gave Marakit a rather unique pattern in the known world, but it hardly helped disguising the dilapidated state things generally were in. The ongoing war on both sides of the kingdom had not only left its military comparably powerless, but also helped to keep its economic welfare at a minimum. There was no real access to major ports left, nor was there a way to import food and other goods in substantial quantities if the own fields couldn't provide those. People had become relatively used to the occasional starvation, even though in Marakit those were bearable. Things were worse in those regions that were more remote and less important, maybe even close to the frontlines or the beaten roads foreign troops marched on. It wasn't as if those would exhibit a particular degree of respect for 'neutral parties'. Not as long as those could provide them with additional resources.
Judging by Ratharyn himself however one would probably not have imagined any of those things to be true. Years of careful treatment and some alchemistic knacks had left his clothes, a thick woolen shirt and trousers, in mint condition. They almost were the only source of somewhat pure white in the entire room. The man was also well fed, intimidatingly tall and equally broad-shouldered. The wooden floorboards creaked loudly beneath his boots with every of his steps. The small-ish place was both laboratory and point of sale, the two functions merely devided by a wooden counter in between. Here he busied himself with keeping his inventory lists up to date and the numerous glass vials clean. Nobody wanted to buy stuff to try and mend his minor ailments if said stuff was dirty in the first place. A simple cloth and a little effort could make a significant difference -- and of course such tools could make the wait for customers a lot less boring.
Today noone had paid a visited yet and it was already late afternoon. It wouldn't be long until Ratharyn would decide to lock the place down for the day. Once the sudden appearance of shoppers had been ruled out he'd have the silence and concentration needed to put his mortar and pestle, calciner and destillator into action and fabricate new stuff, maybe even make new inventions. So he did almost every day as long as there were enough supplies left -- and in the recent months the war had made those run short as well. Altogether it was fair to say that his expectations for his own future had deteriorated significantly over the past year. He might just be running out of his luck slowly, but steadily.
Judging by Ratharyn himself however one would probably not have imagined any of those things to be true. Years of careful treatment and some alchemistic knacks had left his clothes, a thick woolen shirt and trousers, in mint condition. They almost were the only source of somewhat pure white in the entire room. The man was also well fed, intimidatingly tall and equally broad-shouldered. The wooden floorboards creaked loudly beneath his boots with every of his steps. The small-ish place was both laboratory and point of sale, the two functions merely devided by a wooden counter in between. Here he busied himself with keeping his inventory lists up to date and the numerous glass vials clean. Nobody wanted to buy stuff to try and mend his minor ailments if said stuff was dirty in the first place. A simple cloth and a little effort could make a significant difference -- and of course such tools could make the wait for customers a lot less boring.
Today noone had paid a visited yet and it was already late afternoon. It wouldn't be long until Ratharyn would decide to lock the place down for the day. Once the sudden appearance of shoppers had been ruled out he'd have the silence and concentration needed to put his mortar and pestle, calciner and destillator into action and fabricate new stuff, maybe even make new inventions. So he did almost every day as long as there were enough supplies left -- and in the recent months the war had made those run short as well. Altogether it was fair to say that his expectations for his own future had deteriorated significantly over the past year. He might just be running out of his luck slowly, but steadily.