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It is the privilege of architects and generals to watch their pen strokes draw the world.
The self-effacing and skittish traveler, Khifa of the Afsana, was certainly no general. But neither did she fancy herself a city planner. At least, not until a few weeks ago.
As stacks of scrolls and correspondence accumulated on her desk, she could not describe the enormity of her task as anything else. The seemingly innocuous title of trade ambassador assigned to her the labors of negotiating an inflow of raw materials, artisan expertise, and stamped coin. Upon such nourishment did the port city, bloated as it was with refugees, depend upon to grow and expand.
So it was that deft calligraphy and a well-planned turn of phrase brought in limestone from the Moonshae quarries, quality timber and tools from Tethyr, and a steady trickle of provisions and trained labor from the free cities of the Sword Coast. Khifa's desk was a small one, squirreled away in a study within the underground confines of Avanthyr Hold. And it was there that she applied what she thought to be modest strengths - a cyclopedia-like knowledge of nations and realms and peoples, a myriad of friendly acquaintances accumulated during long journeys, and an insatiable taste for calligraphy and writing. Those letters, as it turned out, fed the beast.
Like an awakening kraken, Avanthyr spread its tendrils over even the steep slopes of its mountain-cradle. Streets bent at improbable angles and new buildings were birthed, jutting up awkwardly against the old. The thoroughfares were lively - and not just with the refugees and the destitute, of which there were many. Any given dawn saw walkways crowded with hawkers and peddlers, and the limited inlet upon which so much of Sundren's sea trade depended was overgrown with a forest of masts.
On some level, the Zakharan courtier was aware of the lurching changes occurring in the city where she lived and slept. But for the time being, her concerns were the unfurling of vellum scrolls, a dwindling supply of tallow candles, and the incessant scratch-scratch of a busy quill.
She had work to do.
It is the privilege of architects and generals to watch their pen strokes draw the world.
The self-effacing and skittish traveler, Khifa of the Afsana, was certainly no general. But neither did she fancy herself a city planner. At least, not until a few weeks ago.
As stacks of scrolls and correspondence accumulated on her desk, she could not describe the enormity of her task as anything else. The seemingly innocuous title of trade ambassador assigned to her the labors of negotiating an inflow of raw materials, artisan expertise, and stamped coin. Upon such nourishment did the port city, bloated as it was with refugees, depend upon to grow and expand.
So it was that deft calligraphy and a well-planned turn of phrase brought in limestone from the Moonshae quarries, quality timber and tools from Tethyr, and a steady trickle of provisions and trained labor from the free cities of the Sword Coast. Khifa's desk was a small one, squirreled away in a study within the underground confines of Avanthyr Hold. And it was there that she applied what she thought to be modest strengths - a cyclopedia-like knowledge of nations and realms and peoples, a myriad of friendly acquaintances accumulated during long journeys, and an insatiable taste for calligraphy and writing. Those letters, as it turned out, fed the beast.
Like an awakening kraken, Avanthyr spread its tendrils over even the steep slopes of its mountain-cradle. Streets bent at improbable angles and new buildings were birthed, jutting up awkwardly against the old. The thoroughfares were lively - and not just with the refugees and the destitute, of which there were many. Any given dawn saw walkways crowded with hawkers and peddlers, and the limited inlet upon which so much of Sundren's sea trade depended was overgrown with a forest of masts.
On some level, the Zakharan courtier was aware of the lurching changes occurring in the city where she lived and slept. But for the time being, her concerns were the unfurling of vellum scrolls, a dwindling supply of tallow candles, and the incessant scratch-scratch of a busy quill.
She had work to do.