gearshift48 People mill about, and the smell of alcohol is in the air whenever they pass the disturbing amount of taverns (One every street corner) and soon come up on a large but open, elaborate door marked with a golden Radiant Crucifix. Within, there's people learning how to cast Bolts, the Worker walking past them and up to a throne where Whitnyl was sleeping. His antennae were canted forward, the moth snoring, his hat on a stand. He looked quite fluffy.