The white and gold of the Third Division didn't belong in a place that bled grey. As the heavy, armored carriage came to a halt in the center of the Ash-Hollow square, the contrast was almost offensive. The vehicle was a masterwork of reinforced iron and gold filigree, pulled by six massive, mana-augmented dray horses that breathed plumes of white steam into the freezing morning air. It stood in the middle of a plaza paved with cracked slag, surrounded by hovels that seemed to be held together by nothing but soot and desperation.
Gareth stepped down from the carriage first. He adjusted his silk cape, his gloved hand resting habitually on the hilt of his sword. The air here was foul, a thick mixture of sulfur and coal dust that threatened to stain his pristine white tunic. He looked around the square with a look of practiced indifference. To him, the people watching from the shadows weren't citizens. They were the biological byproduct of the Empire's industrial machine.
