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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Nalfeshnee" data-source="post: 2986224" data-attributes="member: 27130">The Cage. Sigil. The City of Doors. It doesn’t matter what you call it berk, fact is; it’s still there, like some omnipresent power, atop the Spire and no screed’ll change that. At least not yet… The day is like any others in the Cage; thick air, heavy with the fumes and exhaust from the Great Foundry and leaked through Powers-know how many portals saturates the air, stinging the eyes and parching the throats of those forced to breathe it. Above you, arching almost gracefully in a great ring is the inner surface of the city, rising slowly around you, the twinkling glow of slowly-moving light boys and businesses echoing the skies of the Prime Material. Buildings, for the most part grey and cheerless, loom over the streets, their razor-vine covered walls and blade encrusted parapets discouraging intruders and vermin alike from moving near. Cutters move through the street, some fiendish, others celestial, most… well, neither. Most look strange in some form or way, though that’s just part of life in Sigil – normality, if one could say that. Though, appearances are not everything in the planes, and if there’s one thing a body learns in the Great Wheel, and even more so in the Cage, it’s not to judge a blood by its appearance. Angels can fall, and fiends may not be what they appear to be. On a good day, a body might see a deva and a geherilith debating around a hookah in a breezy café in the Lady’s Ward; on a bad day, misguided bashers think they actually have enough power to challenge the Lady’s Word, and things like the Faction War happen… Like some of the cutters around you, you and the others who accompany you are moving through the city with a purpose in mind. Life is not as kind to you as it could be, and you’ve been reduced to petty dogs bodying around the cage, doing odd jobs for whoever needs the help. Today, it’s a primer greybeard (who boorishly insists you refer to him as the Marquis Hooren – primers!) who asked for bodyguards while making his way around the Cage, compiling notes for the Queen of his realm. For most of the morning you’ve walked with the man through the different Wards, stopping for hours at times as he meticulously complies notes and takes sketches of what he sees. At times he’d ask you questions in the clueless tongue of Primers, along the lines of ‘So, the Concordant Opposition is directly below the city?’ Only a primer would call the Outlands the Concordant Opposition! Clueless berk. As the day goes by, the man makes a final stop at a tavern of his choice – the Friendly Wayfarer (a simple place, designed around the sentimentality that primers often feel for their Home Plane). Having dismissed you from his duty and paid you for your troubles (never enough jink, never enough…) he bids you farewell and makes his way upstairs, leaving you alone with your companions, halfway around the Cage from your homes.[sblock=OOC] describe your characters to each other. It is taken that you know each other from the business and the day you've spent together. You've likely worked together before in similar jobs[/sblock]</blockquote>

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