We saw Low Moon from afar, on a risen hill. It was ringed by a large snaking wall, marked with equidistant watchtowers, and even at a distance I could see archers patrolling them. The city beyond was dominated by a fleet of squat buildings, some of the streets narrow and choked, as if chunks of the city had been hastily built on top of the older parts. A few many-tiered pagodas loomed tall, undoubtedly the seats of power in the city.
Back home it would have been considered average in size.
Still, from our vantage, I was able to see throngs of people entering and exiting through the cities main gates. People on foot, mostly, along with a few folks on horseback or riding cassowarys. And, to be expected, there were merchant wagons making their pilgrimage through Low Moon.
We pressed on and joined the line through the southern gate. And got a fleet of spears aimed our way by the local guards once we were close enough. Smoke dropped low to the ground, growling and glowering up at the soldiers.
These weren’t the bumpkins in hand-me-down gear the Iudex had, I could tell that as much. These were hard built men, adorned in armour and carrying blades that had been forged by skilled craftsmen. And from the look in their eye, I knew some of them were no strangers to killing.
“What is that beast doing here?!” one soldier barked, aiming the gleaming tip of his spear at Smoke.
“This beast,” Smoke growled, and the sound of his voice made the people around us jump in shock, “does not appreciate having weapons pointed at him!”
“He’s a spirit beast,” I said, trying my best to keep a level tone. I didn’t much like having weapons pointed at me either, especially after this morning. “He means no harm, not like the wild hellcats. You can trust him.”
One soldier strode forth from the others, distinguished by the three silver bars sewn to the shoulders of his uniform. From how the men regarded him, he seemed some kind of commander. Or, at least, he had more clout than the other troops.
In his hand he held a small piece of jade, the green material having been painstakingly sculpted into the shape of an eyeball. It pulsed, faintly, as he held it up, and then those pulses grew far stronger as he aimed the eye at me. “A cultivator comes to Low Moon,” the man said, stroking his shaggy beard with is other hand. “We sensed the approach of one through the sense stone, but... usually they go around the city entirely.”
They had devices that could sense magicka? That was interesting. Back home it was usually other wizards who handed that sort of thing, and their crystal balls would not work for normal humans.
“I just have business in the city. I don’t mean any harm.”
When was the last time I’d gone to the city without violence in mind?
The other man watched me with sharp, flinty eyes. “But of course, Master Cultivator. I am sure you will be a calm and reasonable visitor to our city. We shall do what we can to keep you safe while you are here, as we do for... everyone within these walls. Safety is a large concern of ours, after all.”
I followed his gaze to the walls, where a litany of men had gathered to watch our conversation. Dozens and dozens of men with spears and those strange repeating crossbows I had seen from Inumi’s bandits. I suppose their numbers would have been a challenge to a low level ‘cultivator.’ And perhaps there were even men armed with magicka in their ranks.
The unspoken threat was hardly subtle, but who could blame him? If the Snake Flower were any indication, cultivators probably caused shit all the time.
“Naturally, sir. And thank you fr your consideration. Come on Smoke.”
He pressed on, the soldiers watching us as we went, but none dared to be the one to slow us down. So they had devices that could sense my power, even from a distance? A pain, to be sure. I couldn’t exactly turn my magicka off. Even when I wasn’t actively using it, the power pulsed and circulated through me. A flame that never extinguished.
Oh well.
“The nerve of these people, Father,” Smoke growled. “First that witch, and now this. Seems everyone wishes to challenge you.”
“Annoying, but... understandable. I’m a dangerous man, Smoke. You’ve only known me as I try to act now.”
He tilted his head, one pointed ear twitching. “But you are a good man, Father.”
“No, I’m really not.” I reached down, stroking the hellcat behind the ears. I appreciated that he thought as much, at least. It was good to have someone at my back.
Low Moon was a loud and busy place, each street lined with people rushing too and fro about their business. There were beggars on every corner and alleyway, drunkards lolling about in the taverns, and there was no shortage of dogs and hens roaming wild along the cobbles.
Were it not for the architecture of the buildings, and the robes and tunics so commonly worn by the natives, it really could have passed for a city back home.
I pressed on, ignoring the various food stalls as they tried to hawk their wares at me, and took to asking the beggars for directions. Such men didn’t mind talking to a foreigner, provided there was a few gin in it for them, and few people knew a city as well as the local beggars.
Low Moon had brewers in the city’s eastern wing, a dense and smoky stretch of the city that housed many of its main industrial plants. The close I got to it the more I heard the sound of hammers pounding on hot iron, and the stronger the sense of smoke became. Flakes of ash fell from belching chimneys as steady streams of black snow.
Here the normal citizens gave way to workmen in heavy smocks, their faces covered by cloth masks to ward off the worst of the choking miasma. I knew the look of exhausted labourers when I saw it, and these men were so engrossed in industry that they scarcely looked up at me or even Smoke in passing.
“The air here is foul,” said Smoke, sniffing and then sneezing violently.
“Aye. Burning coal on a vast scale.”
I remembered Novos’ foundries in fine detail, the scalding heat of them, the stink of smoke. A legion of men, working tirelessly to make endless lines of swords, pieces of armour, and horseshoes.
To fuel a war such as his, the need for steel had been endless. And whatever was found broken on the battlefield, regardless of the source, was melted down and reforged to keep the wheels turning. Seemed memories of the past would always crop up in some way or another.
Eventually, moving to an area where the smoke was less oppressive, we came upon one of the breweries. The Pale Crow, going by the sign outside, primarily dealt in brewing sake and cider, but the scale of the place was impressive: A vast stretch of wood and brick with many workers rushing about.
I found my way to the foreman, a massive slab of a man in a soot-stained tunic and slacks, his attention on a scroll in his hands until I beckoned for him. He turned, regarding me with an annoyed glare. “If you’re looking for a drink, make for the taphouse like everyone else. We don’t sell the bottles here.”
“I’m not here for a drink.” I reached into one pocket and pulled out a glinting stack of gin. “I need some brewing equipment. And if you don’t have any to sell, I imagine you know people who do.”
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