Held over for three hours...
The town was an absolute mess, and Town Hall was even worse off for not being able to communicate effectively with either the internal workers, or the peasantry at large.
At least ten people came over and asked the same damn questions, occupying Olga’s precious time, and Saburov’s as well- something that could have been handled with a simple, timely posted bulletin or address...
All of the patrolmen had enough to do and were overworked as is... they couldn’t manage the first few bulletins he’d tried to send out- what with muggers and stray dogs prowling... alongside their other duties...
It just wasn’t feasible. Absolutely frustrating.
He rubs his temples under a street lamp and forces himself to take a breath and calm down with the rise and fall of his chest. Glancing upwards, he spots the posters for the Theater.
Funnily enough, every day they were different. No one even saw who placed the advertisements for the Theater up. The only thing that the town knew is that Mark was the one responsible for it... somehow.
It’s that thought that sparks an idea.
He looks up at the pitch black sky and sighs. It’s not like he was going home on time anyway.
Spurring right, he walks in the complete opposite direction of the Rod, to the Theater, to request an audience with Mark Immortell...
... or perhaps be an audience in turn?
The Theater looms over the center of Spin-a-yarn Square, the massive cracked face of an expressionless mask gazing out at nothing in particular.
Saburov opens the doors to the Theater, and enters the dark.
@outsideforce
