[ log: winterstrike; an empire falls in just one day ]

[rebuiltspring]

[ it's cold. freezing, in fact, to the point where it could be life-threatening to stay out in the open for too long without wrapping up warm against the bitter cold. Iria was a beautiful city, in its time, and there are still echoes of that beauty even now, among the rubble of shattered houses and theatres scattered among the tiles of the city's streets. the wind's chill cuts through any available opening, and sheets of ice hang suspended between the gaps of buildings, or coating the surfaces of bridges, windows, roofs. snow eddies around corners, and occasionally children use it to have snowball fights; there are still fleeting moments of merriment to be found even now.

Astor breathes on his hands and stamps his feet to warm them, loitering outside a museum. the fledgling ironbird perches on a ledge nearby, alternately watching him and keeping a lookout for anyone approaching, as if guarding him. nice of it to do that, Astor thinks. he's still not sure where the creature came from, or why it's so attached to him - he's never seen anything like it during his time spent as an envoy-cum-spy in Iria, or in any other system he's been shuttled off to, for that matter. but it already seems bizarrely affectionate towards him, and in a place like Iria's become - well, that's no small thing.

idly, he ponders what to do now; he can hear the sounds of a riot a few blocks away, probably over smokewater again, and frowns; no doubt the Ocular Guard will be there in a few minutes in an attempt to "keep the peace". Astor is not fond of the Ocular Guard. not that he's fond of the riots either, but the guard seem to care less about the well-being of Iria and its people and more about their own agenda, or so it seems to him from what little intel he managed to gather before the Winterstrike hit.

maybe he should make himself scarce. he was supposed to meet up with a contact from the Society later, anyway; it wouldn't hurt to get there early. ]