Blom awoke to a bright, cool sun shooting through the windows in his quarters on the upper floor of the Ragged Maiden. Autumn Storm had passed and it seemed from the looks o’ things he and Gilba Gilba were in for a day of no rain, mayhap even a week of such a thing, which truth be told was a rarity in the Autumn months.

Havin’ spent most of his career in the South O’ Things where rain ‘twere but a rumor in the books, the unfavorable weather was a secret pleasure for Blom, who grew up near the Crown where Storms came on the regular. No such weather in the south o’ things. Job placements bein’ what they were, his only taste of rain came when assignments had him in the Island Realm carrying out his tasks. Blom met Hem Slonnigum in the Island Realm.

That career CAME TO AN END AT SOME POINT IN THE RECENT PAST and Blom had to haul hisself and Glen outta the Crown on a somewhat urgent timetable and into the Outlands, where the Crown didn’t figure into things so heavily. Side effect o’ this sorta frantic situation was a healthy dose of his childhood Storms! He loved the Autumn when the trees turned to torches (in a manner o’ speakin’) and the sharp breezes cut through the languid attitudes o’ summer and peppered ya right up for a walk around town!

ALLLLLLLLRIGHTY we got that exposition outta the way with a minimum of struggle, now let’s see what we got. It was walkin’ time. Time for a walk ‘round the town. Think I’ll be doin’ that myself after this scene wraps up. Let’s get ‘er goin’.

“Mornin’ Blom,” said the constable on Jeever Street. Jeever Street was fine. Blom included it today in his walk. The constable was leanin’ up against a torch pole, wide-brimmed hat turned down so as to block half his face. His t’backer pipe had wisps of bluish-gray smoke comin’ out its tip like a sleepy campfire.

“Mornin’ Hur,” answered Blom. Greet the constable like you would your friend and you got yourself one more friend.

Hur went back to his t’backer smokin’. Blom moved on down the town, glancin’ up at the turnin’ trees. He had no affinity for the arts or he would be out here every day sketchin’ up a painting of the yellow, orange, and red flames that were kissin’ the trees like some sorcerer spell in the Trumblor Highlands. He took stock of the brisk air and allowed himself a sentimental sorta grin, the kind that sent him back to the Autumns of his youth.