Shadowkill

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As she rounded one of the sharper angles, she nearly stepped into a group of four guards (dark green with crimson slashes and black leather accents) beating a ragged man with their long whippy canes, all five of them silent except for grunts and squeals. One of the guards straightened, glared at her. Hastily, she cut out into the street and walked on by-like the rest of the locals getting out of there as fast as she could. It was a warning, a timely one, reminding her to stop gawking and get to business.

As she passed from the semi-slums near the outskirts, the traffic got thicker. Women with bales of cloth and fancywork balanced on their heads (she admired and briefly envied the beauty of their walking, the music of their voices. They wore what looked to be long rectangles of patterned cloth wrapped in complicated folds about their bodies, batik prints with a silky sheen, some local fiber, no doubt. If I have time and some spare cash, I should get me some lengths of that, it looks like it feels wonderful against the skin). Men leaning forward and plodding along under backframes loaded with tubers and gourds, sacks of flour and other staples. Handcarts and flats of the two-wheeled variety with small noisy tractors pulling them.