Oh, good, a familiar face. Greta lets out a sigh of relief, her death grip on the Balladeer's arm relaxing as she casts a glance back at the... the edge of the...
...huh. This is different.
Greta lets go his arm, the better to turn about and gawk at her new surroundings. A building towers above them, and there's a good-sized city beyond it. It's as if New York and the Village came to a compromise. She isn't sure if she should be glad it's not so bad as Manhattan or unnerved that it's different from home. What city is this?
Her brow furrows as she takes in the structure they're standing upon. Despite the lack of rope and the comparatively modern construction, she knows exactly what it is. It would, apparently, take more than four or five centuries for the gallows to evolve beyond recognition. No one is paying them any heed. There's no crowd of jeering onlookers. There's no rope. If she didn't know the Balladeer's trade, she might just as easily guess that he was here to make some repairs or something. But he's not 'the Carpenter,' and the air is heavy with grim anticipation. The sun beats hotly down atop her head, but Greta still feels a chill.
"What are we doing here?" she asks, looking up at him. He doesn't seem the least bit worried. "Where is 'here'?"
oh boy oh boy
...huh. This is different.
Greta lets go his arm, the better to turn about and gawk at her new surroundings. A building towers above them, and there's a good-sized city beyond it. It's as if New York and the Village came to a compromise. She isn't sure if she should be glad it's not so bad as Manhattan or unnerved that it's different from home. What city is this?
Her brow furrows as she takes in the structure they're standing upon. Despite the lack of rope and the comparatively modern construction, she knows exactly what it is. It would, apparently, take more than four or five centuries for the gallows to evolve beyond recognition. No one is paying them any heed. There's no crowd of jeering onlookers. There's no rope. If she didn't know the Balladeer's trade, she might just as easily guess that he was here to make some repairs or something. But he's not 'the Carpenter,' and the air is heavy with grim anticipation. The sun beats hotly down atop her head, but Greta still feels a chill.
"What are we doing here?" she asks, looking up at him. He doesn't seem the least bit worried. "Where is 'here'?"