The first sun, Paskiu, rises feebly through the dense morning mist, turning everything about you a sickly reddish purple. Fully another hour and a half remains before Gunzei, the second sun rises and the landscape assumes a healthier yellowish-white cast. Needless to say, anyone of common sense remains safely ensconced in bed until the imminence of Gunzei subsumes the day. You, being possessed of an uncommon sense, have better things to do that are best committed under the bruised sky of Paskiu.
In the distance, the hexaloons call mournfully as you trudge the final short distance from your encampment through the marshes that lie outside the great city of Hawarth. Sadly, the blow weevils have long since gotten to the heart of your boots’ insoles and the jovindas irritate you greatly. The unsuccessful expedition to salvage the downed parecorvair “Audacity” has left you depleted of both spirit and coin (the damned thing landed in a swamp, for crying out loud – everyone knows zhootah dissolves in water!), and the sight of the city brings both relief and foreboding. The relief of a warm bed, the foreboding of a demanding landlord.
Standing at the gates of Hawarth, the contrails of a flock of coughloughans high in the sky are illuminated with the first tantalising light of Gunzei. On the ridge to the east of the city stand the silhouettes of the pygmy dagon-riders, ready to descend upon the weekly market at first proper light. To the west are the sleepy encampments of lorries, tents, and lean-tos of merchants, beggars, and prostitutes, illumined in the pestilent glow of the 26-hour diner “Gude Eets”. Cheery music plays softly from an unattended lorry, though, softening the otherwise squalid scene.
What do you do?
!i!
Your inaction leads to monumental inconsequences. Remembering admonitions to not lock your knees when standing at attention for lengthy periods of time, you wholly fail to pass out, and instead focus on the discomfort felt by your feet in your boots. The bruised purple of the sky turns to mauve, fades to lavender, and then to a pale, tinged blue as white Gunzei rises over the western horizon. The smell of frying conabz and morning effluvia begin to waft from the camps about Gude Eets, and, as if on cue, the dagon-riders spur their bloated mounts down the ridge in a cloud of dust.
The gates of Hawarth open before you.
!i!