Some would say that the heart of Ishgard cannot be found amongst Cathedral spires. Nor, even amongst her military barracks. No, the heart lies deeper within the body. Within the very firmament of the foundation. Through the tunnels and chambers opened by generations of labor beneath the feet of the tower-city above. There toils the working industry of the city. There fires are stoked, stone cut, wood carved, metal forged and shaped. From there the masses are drawn that feed the armies of the Dragonsong War, the fuel and fodder of a generations-long crusade for the very survival of the city.
In a wide chamber sat a row of commercial buildings. Built of crude-cut stone and mortar they had well weathered the tumultuous Dravanian assault now moons past. One building in particular stood for attention: a squat split-level, bearing a masonry stack that belched rich black smoke that rose through grating toward the sun-lit heavens in the distance above. The workshop's metal roof had weathered a beating of debris which had littered the avenue outside, now swept into squalid piles against its rough-hewn, but stout walls.
A hum of activity consumed the entire area, but there the peal of hammers rung again and again, evidence of the industry within. A young boy darted from an open door, moving quickly into the street, dodging several crates of goods as he hurried about an errand. A young low-born woman, carrying a basket smiled at the boy, before ducking into the building herself.Â
It was where the Dragoon's journey into the tunnels of her youth had brought her. Like a journey back through the mists of time... not that there was any time for reflection.
In a wide chamber sat a row of commercial buildings. Built of crude-cut stone and mortar they had well weathered the tumultuous Dravanian assault now moons past. One building in particular stood for attention: a squat split-level, bearing a masonry stack that belched rich black smoke that rose through grating toward the sun-lit heavens in the distance above. The workshop's metal roof had weathered a beating of debris which had littered the avenue outside, now swept into squalid piles against its rough-hewn, but stout walls.
A hum of activity consumed the entire area, but there the peal of hammers rung again and again, evidence of the industry within. A young boy darted from an open door, moving quickly into the street, dodging several crates of goods as he hurried about an errand. A young low-born woman, carrying a basket smiled at the boy, before ducking into the building herself.Â
It was where the Dragoon's journey into the tunnels of her youth had brought her. Like a journey back through the mists of time... not that there was any time for reflection.
![[Image: 21282370099_a814a08664_o.png]](https://farm1.staticflickr.com/590/21282370099_a814a08664_o.png)
