Bolton Woltwork

[…Approximately 24 hours earlier]

Deep in the heart of New Dwarden, between Quadrants One and Two, lies the notorious Whistletop Alley; a vibrant hub where distinctions of status, sex, and species fade into the wonder of the thickening crowds. By day, the alley hums with the activity of vendors from both near and far, offering exotic goods and lively entertainment to families and travelers alike. But as the sun sets, a remarkable transformation unfolds, and Whistletop Alley reveals its true character, unburdened by the revealing rays of sunlight.

As the sun sets, grills ignite, entertainers put on elaborate costumes, and musicians add the final touches to their instruments. In these moments, the alley transforms into a distinct realm where the air is thick with temptations from all corners of the mind. As quickly as entertainment takes center stage, precious rings momentarily disappear, bills are forgotten, and estranged relationships light anew, earning Whistletop Alley its local moniker—the "Blown Whistle District."

Stepping into the alley, one is greeted with meandering wide smiles and tantalizing scents wafting through the air, drawing them further into the labyrinth of stalls that populate the streets from end to end. The hypnotizing aroma of grilled and barbecued spiced meats dances carefree in the breeze, mesmerizing even the most stubborn passersby. Yet, this is only the beginning of the sensory feast that awaits. Once trapped by the large portions of food and drink, melodic hums of music and captivating dramatic performances dazzle long into the morning. From dusk until dawn, the alley comes alive with energy as audiences are swept away by the captivating spectacle unfolding before their eyes, each moment brimming with anticipation and excitement.

Whistletop Alley's unique architecture adds to its allure, with charming, quaint buildings crafted meticulously from orange brick, cobblestone, local woods, and iron, creating a contrasting scenic backdrop from the often congested Quadrants around it. And though other streets boast similar beauty, Whistletop Alley stands out as the largest and most vibrant, stretching from the outskirts of New Dwarden to its very core.

Whistletop Alley exudes an irresistible allure, whether you look at its tall rooftops, gaping sewer grates, or winding offshoot alleys. It seems purposefully crafted for adventurous souls seeking excitement. Its charming streets whisper tales of hidden treasures and secret passages, drawing crafty and nimble explorers to uncover its mysteries, one nook and cranny at a time.

Tonight, however, Whistletop Alley held an even greater allure. Amidst the lively, fire-lit atmosphere of a summer night, a sudden commotion shattered the tranquility, drawing all eyes upward to the rooftops. "By the dog neath’ it's tail! It’s that damn… bleedin’-…" exclaimed a spook vendor, his voice trailing off in shock. Another onlooker gasped, adding to the surrounding vendors' sudden surprise, recognizing the agile silhouette as none other than the infamous Whistletop Burglar. Whispers of disbelief spread through the crowd, and the atmosphere crackled with excitement and apprehension. Some drank to the sight of the man seemingly floating above the rooftops, while others bowed their heads in fear. Nevertheless, the sudden appearance of the “Whistletop Burglar” captivated all who dared to look upward.

Amidst the metallic labyrinth of winding pipes, giant oscillating cogs, and pistoning contraptions that formed the canopy above Whistletop Alley, a young man named Bolton Woltwork, mischief twinkling in his eyes, moved through the sky with a strange kind of grace. Each of his movements seemed to echo a rigid dance as if choreographed by an erratic puppeteer. No matter how hard people searched, most onlookers could only catch a glimpse of the wispy plume of hot white steam and smoke that trailed behind him.

“They’ve taken a shinin’ to me?” wondered Bolton aloud. “Already? I haven’t even gotten to doing a flip with my new… Air Shoes? I’ll work on the name, I promise!” shouted Bolton to the lively crowd, his voice drowning in the bustle.

Noticing the crowd's fascination, Bolton paused, briefly perching himself atop a sturdy red tent, considering whether to stir up further commotion in the already lively night.

"Impure thief! Freak of a half-breed!" shouted a group of men from below.

Tall and sturdy, Bolton stood out against the dark sky, his figure sharply outlined against the night. Clad in a brown bowler hat, dark overcoat, golden suspenders, white shirt, and brown boots, he resembled the tradesmen of old. Despite his familiar attire, Bolton's presence stirred fear and doubt among the onlookers, who hurled accusations of "Thief," "Demon," and "Burglar" at him in an unending chorus.

A storm of drunken insults and threats arose from the angry crowd below, but Bolton simply tilted his head in mock confusion. The moonlight reflected off his goggles as he scanned the crowd with keen anticipation, daring anyone to meet his gaze.

"I hope everyone here is having a wonderful night! See, it’s my first night in town since… well, too long," Bolton called out to a crowd too loud to hear him. "Might have to raise me an octave or two," he thought, coughing loudly before speaking again. "Can any of you drunkards tell me where I might find the original Akiyoma Airship?" he called from his elevated perch, his voice carrying over the bustling square. “You know…the-?"

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"In the same direction as a prison cell!" retorted a toothless old man from below. "New Dwarden’s no place for bottom-dwelling feed! Thief!"

"...airship," Bolton continued, reluctant to finish his sentence.

"The Clinkers will fill the streets here soon! You won’t be able to get away with picking someone else's nose!" threatened another man below.

"By chance, did this thief steal your front teeth and your sense of humor?" Bolton quipped aloud, much to the crowd’s annoyance. His smile soon turned to a scowl as his words became lost amidst the murmurs of the angered crowd.

"Shoulda waited on the midnight grog to loosen their tongues. Well, anger isn’t going to summon my informant or rescue these frogs," Bolton sighed to himself, wiping a loose bit of dripping food from his shoulder, hurled from the crowd below. With a swift movement, he disappeared in a puff of hot white smoke. The metallic glint and clink of his gloves and heels filled the night air with mystery and wonder, punctuating the scene with puffing sounds and hissing steam before he vanished into the shadows.

Bolton watched as the crowd seamlessly redirected their focus to the next spectacle: an approaching float in the shape of a giant frog smoking an even more colossal pipe. Almost offended by the crowd’s ability to brush him off so quickly, he couldn't help but be drawn to the sight of the frog. As he soared above the thickening crowds, his thoughts began to drift. Memories of his family and their time together surfaced uncontested. He daydreamed about a life that felt long past, his eyes momentarily losing focus on the bustling scene below. Glancing back at the float, he observed the procession of musicians harmonizing around it as they traversed the rain-kissed amber roads below.

"I hear parades are more fun when you're not welcome," muttered the young man under his breath, his lips reluctantly curling into a smile. "We’re very unwelcome. And now, we've got Primarian Clinkers to worry about," mumbled Bolton to himself, directing his gaze towards metallic beings weaving their way through the crowd effortlessly.

In the warm lantern glow, towering Clinkers stalked the alley like mechanical scarecrows, their angular faces and rotating cogs casting eerie shadows. Bolton watched them from his stone perch, his eyes narrowing as they prowled on mechanical stilts. Colorful smoke billowed from their gaping mouths, adding to their unsettling presence. Their yellow, crosshatched eyes scanned the crowd with an almost human intensity, searching for anything out of place.

Among the hundreds of Clinkers, one shifted its gaze to Bolton with snapping precision. Unlike the rest, this one’s metallic body was littered with confetti and random paint. Whether by chance or not, the Clinker’s head tilted jarringly before it suddenly lifted itself high into the sky on its metallic stilts, responding as if to a threat. Its eyes flashed red as it carefully poked its leg through the crowd below, making its way toward Bolton.

After an audible gasp, Bolton wasted no time and immediately turned in the other direction, making his way deeper into Whistletop Alley. Once again, he whisked himself away into the darkness of the night, leaving thoughts of any Clinkers far behind him.

Bolton navigated Whistletop Alley's nooks and crannies, ducking under low-hanging banners and dodging bustling crowds. He reached Akiyoma Square, five miles from the guarded Primarian Royale. Amid the lamplight glow stood the revered Akiyoma—a sky-scraping airship replica, a testament to New Dwarden's ingenuity. Without hesitation, Bolton boarded the monument, scaling its towering mast with practiced ease. From his high perch, he scanned the cityscape and the imposing iron gates of the Primarian Royale looming at the alley's end.

Bolton surveyed the sprawling city, pride swelling in his chest. His emerald-green eyes shimmered with the fireworks painting the night sky. He glanced at the city, reminded of New Dwarden’s ingenuity. As he adjusted his stance, the thirteen Quadrants stretched out around him, each a world of its own

"How has it only been five years?" Bolton mumbled under his breath, his gaze fixed on the vibrant cityscape. He daydreamed of a life that felt long past, his eyes glued to the intricate machinery, colossal cogs, and towering structures of Quadrants One and Two. Quadrant One, with its buildings fashioned like giant flutes, caught his attention. These structures harmonized with the wind, producing melodies that drifted through the air like ghostly whispers. Meanwhile, Quadrant Two was filled with shorter, stockier buildings, each shaped according to the enterprise they housed.

Bolton’s eyes often wandered upwards, not only scouting escape routes but also marveling at the uniquely porous buildings of Quadrant One. Creatures dubbed Ignorpa—New Dwarden’s resident giant lizards—lounged under the buildings' lips and extending balconies, their bright colors and tufts of fur visible from miles away. When his gaze shifted to Quadrant Two, he fantasized about entering a busy chicken drumstick-shaped restaurant, its alluring scents tempting him. He watched as crowds of people, smiling, hugging, and dancing, moved in and out of the restaurant like well-organized traffic.

One view in particular captured Bolton’s attention for longer than he realized: a woman with short black hair, wearing an elegant black skirt and top. Her nose had a subtle shade of red, and her eyes were large, accentuated with makeup. He watched as she laughed with her friends, similarly dressed, before disappearing into the crowd. For reasons unknown to Bolton, a feeling of longing and guilt washed over him, his eyes softening as he observed their bond.

Before Bolton's thoughts could wander further, a gentle rustle and tug of his wavy hair snapped his attention back to the present moment. The bustling scene below faded as he looked up at the magnificent Primarian Royale. This serpentine building housed New Dwarden's political elite, with King Woltwork reigning from its highest peak.

Prominent structures jutted from the mountainside, each representing a Leader Of A Quadrant -often called Master's my New Dwarden citizens. While Bolton couldn't discern all thirteen, he noted the prominence of the "Owl" just below the King and the "Bear" at the mountain's base. The height of each structure symbolized its occupant's political stature. Only the King’s figure remained immovable, perpetually perched atop Corazco like a grandfather clock, commonly dubbed the “King’s Clock.”

Bolton stretched his arms toward the top of Mount Corazco, his voice brimming with excitement and anticipation. "Vermolly! Before you say anything, you’re always reminding me of what’s important, and it’s much appreciated."

A sudden shuffling could be heard from under Bolton’s brown bowler hat, causing him to wince in pain between each movement.