hwithumalut

The city of Ulharad’s tallest building stood at eight stories. Most at three, or four. The streets were narrow and shops lines the bricks of them in most of the outskirt of the city. The true city had been planed out and built in full centuries ago, but unplanned housing buildings ran wildly in recirculating alleys and roadways around the true city’s circle with walls now long gone into the realm of dust. Everything within the true city was sacred and therefore forbidden and structured. Many outer city buildings were tilted slightly, and most pressed up against one another as to make their boundaries only clear by a lack of way to pass from one to the other, or by a diffrent vibrant colour of paint on the stone bricks.

Most Mansions were smaller in the true city, though The First Palace was only restricted by it’s time of building in it’s heaping sprawl. Those mansions were ornately assembled in their fine old wood boards and dyed cloudbrick, awe inspiring despite their small scale, some with histories going back to the founding. The mansions of the outer city were larger and acted as tumours in the tissue of chaotic flowing urban structures. These huge structures were nesscestitated by the eventual increase in the amount of the Patrician voter families. Though theses houses each easily quadrupled the size of the largest true city mansion, most had less than half the value of the smallest. Each of these outer mansions had neighbors of othe mansions nearing it for the company of fellow Patrician aristocrats.

The Ulharaden mansion we come to focus on now was more massive and gaudy than most, because ago it absorbed it’s neighbors and the roads inbetween them to create a massive courtyard and street blockage. It had it’s style changed with each architectural style that came along until the eccentric Sagritok Ekrang at the age of 102 died passing the house off to her great granddaughter who promptly sold it on account of some old family debts.

It’s four base structures had been of the old classical style that had been present for centuries and was common across many nearby city states and tributaries. These bases had been open mostly and their courtyards been toward their back. The first thing was the red, green, yellow and blue walls connecting the three already large and servant-demanding manses. The rectangular build made it almost like a formal millitary fortress if it had not been for the wings of the new upper floors with balconies overlooking the shops below. The rooves were made of fashionable black shingles rather than the more historic slanted wood panels.

This villa’s new owner, Obemel Edurikor was a patron of the arts. The artists in question were Usyulek and her actors. She wrote and acted in Turadi, the high theater which was preformed on stage, rather than Urat which was anywhere and concerned any subject despite it’s potential profanity. Turadi was legal to be viewed by the Patrician class, as they could not be distracted from their duties to the city by vulgarities. Usyulek was herself though not a patrician, because Patricians could not stoop to write acted poetry, rather than their divine duty which was too governance and leadership. Her crew stayed in the house, and did much of there work there.

Usyulek sat in bed, not truly sleeping just unintentionally waiting, pretending that she was fully awake and that her actions had reason. She counted the passing moments of the sun before her, each moment it grew higher up and more and amore refused to angle into her eyes. She could count with her eyes closed, because of the red aftershadow reaching through. Her room was small, though it belonged to her alone, no roommates which she was not used too. She slept on a hay mattress, which before this period in her life had never been accessible. She waited for the day to start, for the great unwinding and sitting to begin. Her employer paid for her to produce a play each few months, which often lead her to write weaker plays to spend more time on the real ones. She told her self a story, though it may have been a dream.

It’s the third showing of a play I had just written, called Arki’s Nautillius. People need to watch a play three times to get the real value of it. The wooden stage was so soft, like an eerie wind. I wore no mask. The whole crowd was cheering. Juntay was wearing the mask of a fish, the same as the one from the Death of Tarik, a dread full show she had written. I made this mask myself. The whole massive crowd was maybe three for four people. I was amazed, because I was winning the first place prize. I was being crowned by the chancellor with the golden ring. I being covered in coins and shaking hand with famous patricians, such as the entire Edurikor family. Obemel and her family stood in the robes on the stage. Obemel was the chancellor of Ulharad, and did not wear the emblem of the chancellor. She was twenty years younger. She did not even need to open her mouth to speak, she that glorious.

“You are to be made a patrician. Infact you will be the new chancellor. You are so great at writing Turadi. You are a genius.” “Thank you thank You! I am so great.” I cheered. But then Juntay rushed to take the chancellor’s emblem and place it on her own neck. I was unseen and unheard. Then Juntay undid her magic and everyone learned that I had just arrogantly claimed to have written the play they all had witnessed. They opened their mouths laughing, and their jaws became still. The cackles emanated from the void betwixt their thin green lips, this was a play house so of course they had makeup on. Juntay laughed out words.

“I am the real creator of the play. Your play was pornographic Urat at best. I had to improve one just now as I was performing. I was the real artist. Your play included phallic humor. How bad for you. You are so bad. Your play was actually incomplete. You could not even finish an Urat. “

Juntay screamed this into my face as I actually died and was entombed in the sewer.

It was a slow morning and the ray of light finally was to high to not creep through the window as cast stinging light on Usyulek’s face. The metal bar that kept thieves from crawling in had been rusted for some time now, and Usyulek had not asked for it to be cleaned yet. The presence of any hole at all in the room was irksome, and patricianesque. She had to at least be up for breakfast so that she could be filled for the day, but it was also the case that when she was in bed her soul mused on and on about how the meals could be at any time. So why in the mornings? Eventually her wits halfway returned to her soul and so she became aware of herself partially. I waste so much in mornings. I could have finished the script for Arki’s Nautilius if i could wake and then spring from bed. This is what is preventing me from winning the competitions. Juntay always said she never slept, so this is why I am always behind her.

She clambered out to the floor, eyes almost tearing at the thought she was having in her half-dream. She left the floor with stumbling motion and dressed in her torso robes and rillo, pants that went down to the kneecap. She was not totally past the tears by the time she left her room, furious with herself for wasting time being sad with herself. She knew the dream was false, but so was all high theatre.