It's a wonderful day in Sharn. The sky is a clear, crystalline blue in defiance of the typical rain and smog, the sun is shining brightly, a fresh breeze runs through the upper levels, and everything seems moderately less dour.

None of this, of course, is apparent to Talthran d'Thurrani on his daily journey to the underground reaches of the Upper Cogs. The air of the Ashblack district is appropriately full of the soot of forges and the shadows created by firelight. A few reasonably dressed Cannith magewrights and artisans are spots of relative color in the crowds of dirty, rough-looking goblins, warforged, and assorted other humanoids that take up most of the eye in the cavernous spaces of the district. All as usual for the daily commute of an artificer in the Forgehold.

Still, the shadows seem somehow deeper today, in contrast to the lovely weather above-ground. Maybe that's because it's Mol and everyone is burning their trash and dross as well as the regular working of the foundries, or maybe it's something more sinister. In Sharn, you can never be entirely too sure.

It's morning, and Talthran's in the morning crowds in Ashblack. His shift in charge of crafting minor magical items at the Cannith Forgehold is starting soon.