@lutelier — for vegas.
Humidity blanketed thick upon Baldur’s Gate. Even those who stood amongst the banks of the coast, feeling the rush of seaside breeze tickle their cheeks and toss their hair, were swift to shy away from the sun’s agonising glare. Shade was a luxury, one that many couldn’t afford. Those who stalked the streets, by burden of coin or lack thereof, would find dew-like sweat beading upon skin. Handkerchiefs, usually tucked away neatly upon breast or pocket, instead primed betwixt damp fingers and curled fist, anticipating the next dribble of sweat to rain down.
As day crawled towards eventide with all the enthusiasm of a caterpillar, groups sought the solace of shadows cast by the vast architectures strewn up and down narrow street flanks. One particular ragtag crowded, flush, against the building wall, fanning themselves in a pitiful attempt to rend the warmth sunder. It did little to relieve the heat.
“… Ah’heard it tastes weird. Does it?”
“Taste? No taste to it really, but yeah, it’s got a weird texture, it does. But: the results are worth every coin. That guy up at Mystique’s sure knows what he’s doing. I mean, reliving memories? With a little vial? Come on.”
“Hey, if you asked me to put two plants together and make magic on a plate, you can bet your ass when you got that plate, it’d just be a mush of green!” A jab of elbow. “What he makes looks like if y’shit the sun itself!”
Laughter, happy and buoyant, floated between them.
“Ah’ought to pay him another visit, then. Miss m’daughter, ah’do. So very, very much.”
“Mystique’s is where you gotta be then, mate. Now, come on, I think I see some Flaming Fists up near that corner, let’s give them a miss before we ‘look at ‘em wrong’ or some shit.”
Another bout of laughter, a slap on the back, and away they went.
It didn’t take much to get directions to one Mystique Offerings—colloquially known as just Mystique’s—if one probed a few people for some directions. Located in the bowels of the seedier parts of the city, it certainly stuck out like a sore thumb. While many other stores kept their exteriors on a downlow, preferring the skulk of the shadows to the vividness of colour, Mystique’s was a vast, three-story building. An extravagant, though dirtied, rug rolled out from the big, polished double-doors much like a tongue, painting red and black down the few steps unto the cobblestone of the street. The sounds of laughter, music, and all manners of happy revelry boomed from within.
