It's referred to as the “Bay Effect.”
Although once seen with grave superstition by the first refugees from Aiagon, the unique weather pattern today is better understood as the result of the Azure Sea’s position as a windtrap acting on the northern trade winds of the Arunean Continent.
The sudden exchange of atmospheric conditions, primarily a high pressure pump intersecting with the boundary lines of the low pressure zones of the Resolochev mountain range surrounding the west of the nearly enclosed bay, forces rapidly cooling air northward directly into the city of South. Like a great procession traveling through city gates, the dense moisture system breathes life through the coastline and into the entire continent to the north.
The final result of this phenomena in South however is simply a moderate rain in the Fall, and a mild snow in the colder, winter months(with the rare blizzard included).
From cloudy skies the small, fragmentary bits of rain shed themselves onto city streets. Atop sheet metal roofs and in gutters onto brick streets, the palpable stench from runoff faltering the senses of passing citizens.
The bustle of the border, 8th Avenue acting as the splice between Midtown and Cortail. The huge street separating apartment complexes and factories in a massive, nearly straight divide into the district of Tideson to the far north.
A single block acting as the crossroads of nearly three districts, an arterial vein pumping a hundred thousand tons of souls, cargo, and selfish wishes.
From the eastern corner of the divided section the scent of baking bread carries all the way to street level, Anipurin Cafe & Bakery’s massive industrial oven working overtime as the morning rush reaches an apex. Starving commuters in the cravings of sugar and fat, ailes of cheap, industrially produced pastries wrapped in waxed paper the singular solution to empty stomachs.
To its westwardly directions an alleyway separates the proprietorship from its sister; a blood relationship between owners expressed in the absurdity of their separate industries. The Anipurin family’s third child rebelling against ancient lineages, a rejection of the halfling tradition of food and hospitality in exchange for the cold, unfaltering embrace of the law. Anipurin & Cato & Karpov Limited Law Offices stands almost five stories tall with its massive illusory sign glowing in the fog, the vicious advertisement of criminal defense plastered with immense financial wealth from an insane caseload. Forms in illuminated windows parse through piles of legal documentation, a morning barely begun and already work hitting its peak hours.
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The laundromat wraps around the entire north to west corner beneath a stack of middle-class apartments; its glass facade triple armored with criss-crossing steel bars, shaded coloring, and decaying advertisements. A signage of “Love and Joy in the Pleasures of Work” broadcasts its intentional positivity to the streets, and within the automated laundry units mine through the dirt and grime of South. Two owners between it all, a partnership consummated in both business and matrimony found folding laundry and arcane realignment. A magical education blooming from the most fundamental of tasks, the simplest spells mass produced into steel crates and applied for profitable endeavors. Cleaned linens and formal suits, the scent of ozone from ancient magics carrying the dust and grime from fabrics through vacuum tubes and into packed dumpsters outside.
Perhaps the most important structure remains shut this morning; its doors sealed with a promised opening time as the five staff members begin the final preparations before their hour of reckoning. A tiny fire elemental purring away within its steel home awakened with kind words and the immense potential power of arcanely compacted wood. A breakfast, lunch and dinner combined into a single brick that the creature gleefully swallows in its waking moments.
An oven heated to vicious temperatures, spheres of dough softened and massive pots of sauce brought to boil. Cheese and toppings readied for fast service, a manufacturing chain of foodstuffs readied for the inevitable rush. The owner watches it all, the massive human’s scarred form a remembrance of a youth of adventure and violence. One eye blinded, six fingers between two hands missing, and a prosthetic leg nothing against a love of fast, convenient, and immensely unhealthy food; Arni’s Own Pizza perpetuating a simple human dish brought beyond the veil and into this world from the dreams of retirement.
One building stands from it all, its mass taking up the remaining space within the gorged city block. A sixty foot tall marble facade more ancient than the streets themselves reaching upwards to the rainy sky. Two spires at each edge tapering off with spheres of glowing gold, the transmission and reception of arcane energy adjusted to reach across entire precincts of the great city.
Dead center, held above the massive double doors of steel, the sigil of the eagle in flight stares down the entire world. Travelers across Azure Seas, to come to rest on the rocks of a new home.
Insul’a, sav’atoria, do’sin.
PRECINCT EIGHT CENTRAL POLICE STATION
The 8th Judicial Precinct of South: the center at the center of the world. An arbitrary point in the pulsing of an awakening body, the figurations of judiciary borders containing an immense diversity of thought, culture, and blood beneath the grand umbrella of codified law.
One soul amongst the morning crowds stands before the massive building, the greenish face of orcish heritage mixes with the blue eyes of ethnic humanity, the separation and unification of the races of the Alliance played upon his very being. Simple clothing layered above a fit, yet short frame all hidden beneath a long dark gray overcoat, a sheathed longsword protruding from a holster strung on his back adding just a few inches more to an already challenged height.
A born life staring at the eagle above, a fatal decision cemented as the young man takes the first step towards the open door.