The Blooms of Perennial Wisdom: Chapter 4

 The room wasn't particularly spacious and the thick beams on the ceiling hanging a little above Theodore's head made it look even smaller. The decoration, before it was furiously altered, involved bookcases filled with leather-bound books and a collection of various academic tools, from pens and compasses to telescopes and astrolabes. Now, everything lied on the floor with most of the items beyond the state of a simple repair.

He approached the desk which had been briefly cleared from the debris and sat on the rocking chair as the man before him had suggested.

“My name is Jebediah Code” said the man and offered a wrinkled hand in greeting. “I'm glad you received my letter.”

The Blooms of Perennial Wisdom: Chapter 3

A subtle light slowly crept from outside and the slight adjustment in illumination woke Theodore up.

He reluctantly got off the bed and moved his still slumbering body towards the window. Under a dense ceiling of gray clouds the city was already awake. The streets below crawled with people, crafting, trading, strolling around as much as they could, before the skies cracked open once more. His over indulgence in liquors last night had provided for a devious bowel and a nice headache, so he poured some water on his face to consolidate his senses. As he saw his dreary reflection in the water-bowl, he tried to gather his recent memories to figure out some possible reason to grab the day by the sideburns and not call in sick.

The Blooms of Perennial Wisdom: Chapter 2

The rain was still pouring outside, but the heat of the fireplace and the chaotic chatter of the customers dispelled it from Theodore's mind. One of Rumporth's more questionably decent taverns, The Handsome Devil was cramped this hour of the day. The owner of the place, always sitting behind the bar was definitely not handsome, but he did possess some undefined devilish quality.

The Blooms of Perennial Wisdom: Chapter 1

It was around sundown. Although, sun rarely visits these parts.

The light filtering through the dark blanket of clouds was fading and oil lanterns took its place. Heavy rain was pouring down like God's rods, crumbling Theodore Hold's constantly malfunctioning parasol and aptly revealing him to be as out of place as he already felt. A chapel was nearby. He stood beside a weather-beaten cypress tree, part of a small congregation of figures surrounding a hole in the ground. Funerals always made him uneasy. It was the people there. This one, luckily, was attended only by a few.