Aubrey’s boots clicked against the cobblestones, each step a sharp note echoing through the stillness of the early morning. Her crimson eyes darted about, taking in the sights of Mordenstadt as it loomed before her.

As she approached the outskirts, she couldn’t help but notice the shift in the atmosphere. Gone was the quiet, rural air of the countryside, replaced by the din of the city. Sounds drifted toward her, carried on a brisk breeze—the clattering of carriage wheels, the murmur of conversation, the whining of stray dogs.

The scent of smoke and soot tickled her nostrils, accompanied by the tang of oil and metal. Buildings loomed overhead, their facades grimy and worn, their windows dirty and cracked. The streets were crowded with vendors and beggars, their stalls and their rags adding to the chaos and the stench.

Aubrey wrinkled her nose, suppressing the urge to gag as she pushed her way past a group of ragged urchins, their cheeks hollow and their eyes dull. Several reached out to her with thin, trembling hands, begging for coins or scraps.

"Sorry, kids. Nothing to spare." She patted her pockets apologetically, revealing the lack of any valuables.

She treaded the cobblestones in borrowed clothes—an oversized shirt clinging to her like a sack, and trousers too loose despite the belt cinched tight. She had washed her body the night prior, using water from the backyard's rusty pump. It had been a cold, sobering experience. The caretaker had provided her with the clothes, albeit reluctantly.

In addition, Aubrey now sported a new accessory—a crude messenger bag consisting of burlap sacking, roughly sewn together with hemp string, and fastened shut with a length of rope. It held the essentials: A pocket watch, a canteen, a few pence and shillings, a comb, and a nail file.

She had also ordered the caretaker to bury the corpses of those graverobbers. Better to hide evidence of her existence for a little longer.

Aubrey continued onwards, weaving her way through the throng, ignoring the stares and whispers directed her way.

Rundown buildings leaned into one another for support, their facades a patchwork of peeling paint and exposed brick, while shanties cobbled together from scrap wood and metal huddled in their shadows. The air carried the weight of coal smoke and the tang of iron, mingling with the less identifiable but equally pungent odors of crowded life and decay.

Despite the filth and poverty surrounding her, Aubrey couldn’t help but appreciate the energy of the place—the hustle and bustle, the vitality. A surge of excitement bubbled up within her as she drank in the sights and sounds.

This feels like a proper shantytown of a fantasy gothic city. I have to admit... I love it.

The streets narrowed as Aubrey ventured deeper into the slum, forcing her to squeeze past clusters of people gathered outside ramshackle storefronts and dingy taverns. Groups of men loitered on corners, smoking and gambling, occasionally breaking into fights over trivial matters.

Children dashed to and fro, their bare feet padding lightly against the cobblestones. Dogs scavenged along the gutters, sniffing at piles of refuse and chasing after rats. Women perched on stoops, chatting and gossiping, their hair loose and their dresses revealing.

Eventually, Aubrey found herself standing before a dilapidated building—a three-story edifice of crumbling brick and decaying mortar, its facade covered in graffiti and stained with years of accumulated grime and soot. Above the entrance hung a faded sign bearing the image of a raven and the words "Black Feather Inn".

She hesitated briefly before stepping through the doorway and into a dimly lit lobby. Within, she could barely discern the shapes of tables and chairs scattered throughout the space, surrounded by clusters of figures hunched over their drinks and meals.

Dim lanterns glowed feebly upon the walls, their flames sputtering weakly in the drafty air. Music played faintly from a battered fortepiano in one corner, the melodies distorted and the notes sour, though the melody did carry a faint, nostalgia-inducing charm.

The patrons turned to watch her enter, their gazes lingering upon her. Whispers filled the room, the voices muffled and the words indistinct. Aubrey met their stares unflinchingly, a smirk playing upon her lips as she surveyed the crowd.

Most were dressed poorly—their clothes threadbare and patched, their boots scuffed and worn. Many bore tattoos or scars, and a variety of weapons hung openly upon their belts and waists. Others had the look of laborers, their faces and hands rough with calluses, their posture slouched and weary.

Amongst the crowd, Aubrey spotted a few women—gowned and powdered, their makeup garish and their hair coiffed elaborately. These women clung to the sides of burly men or flirted brazenly with patrons, their laughter high-pitched and artificial.

At the back of the room, Aubrey noticed a bar, tended to by a heavyset man dressed in a stained apron. Behind him, rows upon rows of dusty bottles and kegs lined the shelves, their labels obscured in the gloom.

With a confident stride, Aubrey made her way over to the counter, earning an array of glances, ranging from disinterest to overt lust, along the way. She climbed up onto a stool and tapped her fingertips impatiently upon the wooden surface, waiting to catch the bartender's attention.

Finally, the man ambled over and acknowledged her, regarding her suspiciously as he wiped his hands upon a greasy rag.

"What'll ya have?" he grunted.

"Just water, thanks." Aubrey flashed a polite grin.

The bartender eyed her for a moment longer before fetching her a glass and filling it with a dubiously clean liquid. As he handed it to her, she noticed his knuckles bore the telltale signs of broken bones and numerous scars, and a tattoo of a dagger marked his forearm.

"Cheers," Aubrey declared, lifting the cup to her lips and taking a tentative sip.

She wrinkled her nose slightly at the bitter flavor but forced herself to swallow. Setting the glass aside, she swiveled upon the stool to survey the room, her crimson eyes scanning the crowd.

"You ain't from around these parts, are ya, girl?" the bartender asked gruffly, leaning across the counter and eyeing her warily.

"Guilty as charged," Aubrey responded with a wry smile.

"Aye. Figures. You stick out like a sore thumb," the bartender commented, gesturing at her with his chin. "Too clean-lookin', and ya walk funny. Nobleman's daughter or somethin'? But yer clothes're cheap and yer shoes're worn. Can't figure ya out."

"Just a traveler passing through," Aubrey corrected him, swirling the remaining water idly in the bottom of her glass. "Thirsty from a night of travel."

"Hmm." The bartender grunted skeptically. "Best finish yer drink, then. Best head back home."

"Soon enough," Aubrey replied, waving him away.

She ignored his disapproving stare as he ambled off to tend to the other customers. Taking another sip from her drink, Aubrey shifted her focus to the fortepiano. A gaunt, middle-aged man hunched over its keyboard, plucking the strings with spidery fingers as he coaxed the discordant melodies from its battered innards.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Aubrey furrowed her eyebrows as fragments of memories surfaced within her mind—a polished stage, an audience applauding, bright lights illuminating her from all angles. Fingers dancing across ivory keys, accompanying her melodious voice.

"Sing for me, Nightingale."

Aubrey blinked, shaking her head. Who said that? Whose voice was that...?

The memory must've belonged to the Aubrey from this world—ugh! No, no! Stop thinking like that. YOU are Aubrey! Both versions. Just merged together... right?

She grimaced. This whole identity crisis thing was a real headache, and she'd only been 'alive' for a day.

Setting the water aside, Aubrey hopped down from the stool and strode over toward the musician, sidestepping through the crowd until she stood directly beside the piano. Up close, the instrument looked even more battered, its lacquer scuffed and scratched, its strings frayed and dull.

The man didn't pause in his playing, his fingers continuing to pluck at the keys, producing a lively, if uneven tune. Aubrey listened for a moment, letting the song fill her ears, stirring up further fragments within her thoughts.

Another fragment—performing before a rapturous audience, her voice soaring to the rafters.

Aubrey hummed the melody, testing it silently within her throat, trying to recall the lyrics. To her surprise, the song came naturally to her, the words flowing easily and effortlessly from her lips. She began singing along, her voice rising and falling in tune with the man's playing, blending seamlessly with the piano's dissonance.

The music swelled, its notes resounding loudly within the confines of the tavern. Aubrey's voice grew stronger, becoming bolder, filling the air with its power. Soon, heads began turning toward her, attention shifting away from their conversations.

The pianist glanced up at Aubrey, his brow furrowed. She winked in response, flashing him a devilish grin. He returned the expression, nodding appreciatively.

Together, the two performers continued their duet, Aubrey improvising her lyrics where she couldn't recall the original lyrics. Slowly, patrons began swaying to the rhythm, clapping and stamping their feet.

Aubrey basked in the rush of the performance, losing herself within the flow of the music. Time seemed to blur, the minutes slipping away unnoticed. Before she knew it, the song was drawing near its end, the notes fading into the ether, the applause ringing throughout the tavern.

She bowed dramatically, her grin widening. Beside her, the pianist chuckled and took a dramatic bow of his own, eliciting cheers and whistles.

"Thanks, pal," Aubrey whispered to the pianist, giving him an acknowledging nod.

She then raised a hand and offered a theatrical farewell wave, before sauntering back to the bar and reclaiming her seat.

[You've gained a small amount of experience.]

Huh...? Experience for what? Singing? Performing?

"You've got a voice on ya, missy. Never heard the song sung so smooth." The bartender remarked.

"Thanks," Aubrey replied, flagging him over. "I'll have some more water, please."

"Didn't scare ya away none, eh?" he replied, pouring a refill into her glass.

Aubrey shrugged. "Nah. Actually, I feel energized."

She took a long, satisfying gulp, savoring the coolness of the liquid sliding down her throat.

"Care for somethin' stronger? On the house, since ya sang so nice." The bartender gestured at the rows of liquor behind him. "Plenty'a rum, whiskey, brandy, ale... Name yer poison."

"No, thanks. The water's perfect," Aubrey replied, setting the empty glass back onto the counter. "Say, got a question for ya: Where might a traveler like myself find some temporary employment around here?"

"Employment?" The bartender eyed her incredulously, scratching his beard. "Depends what kinda work yer lookin' fer. Gallows Row ain't exactly known fer its opportunities. Too poor a neighborhood fer that."

"Hmm, Gallows Row... Interesting name. And no, I'm not looking for charity, or a handout. I'm willing to do work—menial labor, cleaning, cooking, serving tables, laundry... Anything respectable that pays a fair wage."

The bartender let out a grunt of amusement, shaking his head slowly. "Respectable work, huh? Yer gonna have a hard time findin' it round these parts, girl."

Aubrey flashed him a charming grin. "Worth a shot, though, yeah? Know any places hiring? Any place needing a cute, talented performer, perhaps? Perhaps a theater, or a restaurant?"

"Ain't no theaters nor restaurants in Gallows Row. Place like that would hafta be somewhere higher class, in a nicer part'a the city."

"Figures..." Aubrey muttered, running her fingers through her hair. "Any idea where I could find a job, regardless? Maybe a list of establishments that hire the desperate and the destitute?"

"There's always a demand fer labor in the factories," the bartender suggested, pointing a meaty thumb over his shoulder. "They're always lookin' fer folks ta fetch materials, scrub boilers, sweep floors, and the like. Good way ta earn a livin'. Hard work, though—long hours, low pay. Accidents happen. Lotsa folk wind up dyin' or losin' limbs ta the machines."

"Factories, huh?" Aubrey mused, contemplatively tapping her fingernails against the wooden counter.

"Aye. Plenty'a factories in the Ironworks district, north'a here. Big ol' smokestacks, lots'a metal."

"Ironworks district, got it."

"If ya ain't the factory sort, then yer best bet would be ta hire yerself out as a maid or a servant," the bartender stated, pouring himself a drink and taking a long gulp. "Noble folk're always lookin' fer cheap help. Most willin' ta pay fairly dependin' on the task. Course, nobles're also a bunch'a stuck-up bastards, so ya gotta watch yerself or risk gettin' treated like dirt. Them rich folk think everyone's below'em."

"Rich bastards, gotcha. Places to apply?" Aubrey questioned, quirking an eyebrow.

"Sure. Them nobles got a bunch'a houses throughout Mordenstadt. Goes fer the merchant types, too. Ya could start checkin' the bulletin boards fer advertisements. Should find plenty'a job postings."

"Bulletin boards... Thanks, mister barkeep. I appreciate the intel." Aubrey gave the bartender a playful salute, hopping off her stool and dusting off her clothes.

"Leavin' already? What's the hurry, missy?"

Aubrey cast a sweeping glance about the tavern, noting the increasing number of patrons filing inside, many casting her curious glances and appraising stares.

"Getting crowded, and I'd rather not become the entertainment for the evening. Call it an occupational hazard of being a performer," Aubrey explained, offering the bartender a noncommittal shrug.

"Fair 'nuff, missy." The bartender snorted. "Take care, then. Try not ta get robbed, or worse. Gallows Row ain't a friendly part'a town."

"Will do, thanks. Take it easy, bartender."

She tipped an imaginary hat in farewell and turned on her heels, making her exit amidst the swelling crowds.

Out on the street, Aubrey strolled leisurely down the narrow avenue, dodging puddles of gutter runoff and the occasional pile of horse dung. Her eyes roamed over the buildings surrounding her, each a mix of timber and stone, most built directly upon one another with barely a finger's width of space separating them.

The architecture varied, though each structure shared a distinct similarity; they all seemed to lean precariously, tilting slightly to the left or the right, threatening to topple at any moment. Roofs sagged dangerously, their tiles cracked and crumbling, while gutters flowed freely with runoff from leaking pipes.

Wooden balconies jutted outward, many supported by a single rotting beam, and clotheslines stretched across alleyways, festooning the skies with a chaotic mess of garments and linens.

Overall, the neighborhood possessed a ramshackle quality, as if it had been constructed hastily and maintained haphazardly.

Despite the rundown aesthetic, she found the vibe to possess a sort of grimly picturesque charm, especially the quaint row houses and shanty-styled shacks that lined the main road, each displaying a plethora of signs advertising services and goods.

 'Madame Lilura's Love Potions and Poisons.'

 'Shamanistic Remedy and Medicine.'

 'Tailor and Cobbler Services!'

Aubrey's wandering feet brought her to a crossroads, and she halted, inspecting the three paths stretching out before her. Directly ahead, a busy thoroughfare extended through a looming tunnel carved within a towering wall of mortared stones. Carriages and carts rattled down the cobblestone path, drawn by horses and oxen.

To her right lay another congested avenue, though this one appeared to lead toward a market, judging by the sounds of hawkers and the aromas of produce wafting from its direction. To her left, a quieter street led into a maze of narrow alleys and shaded passages.

Hmm, which way to go next?…