Located just behind Condemnation, it doesn't take an exorbitant amount of time to locate the structure, and a brief mixture of searching and questioning the locals leads you to find the building with relative ease. It is composed entirely of stone, uniformly a dark grey throughout its walls, and then shifting to a far brighter reddish, as though the stonework had been fashioned from clay and then fired into bricks. It doesn't take an expert to realize that the building is likely reaching the end of its life-span, assorted detritus seemingly stuck to its walls, the occasional chunk of stone having been shattered to little more than dust, leaving a thick and traceable indentation where once a uniform strength had remained.
The building is notably unmarked in any traditional sense, no signs or messages are written near its entrance to alert passerby to its presence or purpose, though the locals all seem to be innately familiar with its location and the work that goes on within. Stepping into the structure, you're greeted with a large lobby and the smell of freshly-spilled ink, its a thick scent, assaulting the nostrils and drowning out any other unhappy odor that might have permeated such a confined space. A pair of chairs have been placed outside of the lobby next to what appears to be a rough bulletin board. Documents of various make and literate competency are scattered across the board, highlighting assorted jobs and positions of employment open throughout the city. Several of them are written in a recognizable style, evidence that a third party was responsible for the writing of the pamphlets and notices.
A lonesome hallway leads to a series of offices, their doors all having shuddered for the trial except for one, left open- another wound on any sense of uniformity which one might have found- and which is quickly identified as the source of the scent of spilled ink. Stepping into the room, you're greeted with the familiar sight of a bureaucrat hard at work, his dead-fish eyes glazed over by the extreme monotony of endless piles of documentation. His desk is piled high with papers, several of them laid out in assorted piles in a mockingly sad attempt at organization. There is the constant drip-drip-drip of ink as an upturned bottle spills out onto the floor, and you briefly hope you didn't step in any of the gradually expanding puddle.
It takes the older gentleman several moments to recognize your presence, or perhaps he's merely waiting for you to make the first sound, to give him proper clause to put down the paper. Eventually, his face contorts into a visage of exasperation, and a lonesome, "What?", echoes into existence.
A moment later, he sets down the paper, re-focusing his dead eyes upon you, and gradually sliding over a large document which appears to be covered in numbers, clearly a price listing even with a quick glance. "If you can read, here. If you can't-" A sigh of genuine disappointment, as though he's been placed in the most damnable of situations, "-then I can read it for you. It's a housing paper. Everything you need to find permanent or temporary lodging in our... fair city." He pauses, forcing the words out of his mouth.
The Document
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