It is clearly cold outside. My eyes are pulled to a scene.

The locals, some disgruntled laborers, by the looks of them, are blocking the street. Standing in a way of a stagecoach and engaged in a heated dispute with the coachman, as far as I can tell. An actual stagecoach... Not even one of those fancy new motor vehicles that slowly conquer the streets these days, replacing the odor of horse dung with their own brand of choking fumes.

The scent of Progress, as I've heard folks joking in the machinery division of the plant.

Bedraggled workers on the street apparently don't care what the wheeled contraption smells like. The winter has been hard on them this year, with the whole dock district buzzing with rumors of a looming famine by the end of the month. They want the Mayor to do something about it... And they're right.

Nothing gets done, though. Nothing will be done. I wonder if they know about it. Probably, deep down, they do. That's what makes them so angry. The coachman tries to get through, to do his job. The job he was paid for. One of them.

Or so one would think. I see a gun pulled out, a sledgehammer swung in rage. The pained scream reaches my ears even through the thick glass. The horses struggle in distress, two men trying to calm them down. Moments later, they pull the coachman off his seat as he shrieks, holding his bloody, limp forearm. Now that I think of it, the arm is bent in a way an arm should not be. I wince in a pang of second-hand soreness.

Fools. They don't seem to know the coach is empty, heading to its station after a day of servicing some impatient gentlemen or ladies. No one important in this city travels without a guard this late into the winter, through this part of the city no less, and neither do their fortunes. Their surprise upon realizing it shows they did not think it through very hard. They pilfer a few objects and ornaments that look valuable, give the coachman a taste of their boot one last time and leave the scene in a huddled, grumbling mass.

I think about hollering to get Felicia's attention, so that I can ask her to get that poor chap off the street. The moment my lip moves, I remind myself she is out shopping for groceries, the good housemaid she is. My expression returns to its regular dispassionate blankness. This man's elbow got shattered into a hundred pieces... For what? Nothing.

Frustration. Desperation. Contempt. They hate those who don't share their struggles. Those who stare at them from foggy windows of their warm rooms... Those like me.
...Well, at least I'm not important enough to travel with a guard, either.

I may have been born and raised into disdain for them, but that did not stand the test of time.
Neither commoner nor noble, despite my blood running blue, to the scorn of the high- and the low-born alike. Just a gentleman, I guess. I wish them no ill, they are the salt of the earth, after all. The shoulders that hold the burden of this... Civilization.

I touch the cold glass of the window, pondering on its nature. The philosopher in me says that it is a border between worlds - my world and the one outside. It might as well be true. This dimly lit study is where I live, when not working, at least. No manors, private forests or grand estates, not anymore. I am not my parents, not my grandparents. Not my ancestors, not after the winds of war that brought us here. I am alone with those bookshelves, the ornate desk and my comfy, lavish chair.

It is warm inside, a testimony to the craft of the architects and builders who erected this tenement, as well as the hard work of Mr. Kreshnar down in the boiler room. I should thank him... But I know not to expect more than a grunt. A silver coin worth six pints of ale would probably do better, since who gives a damn about my thanks?

The kind of cold I feel is not physical, it's a coldness of the soul. A soul who tried to do right, despite Fate itself working hard to convince it of the futility of such pursuits. Me, the figure in the window. I am not the answer to the woes of the hungry dockworkers or the swearing coachman. I don't belong among the high tables, either. My family's legacy in tatters, its crest and name fallen from grace and dragged through the mud. Not my fault... I was just a kid. At least that's what I tell myself, it doesn't seem to matter to anyone, really. Just some educated fancy-pants with a few stories to tell.

I have seen many things through this window. Not only violence, anger and squalor. I have also seen kindness, love and mirthful revelry on a pleasant, sunny day. It has all been there, outside. Not my experience, theirs. That of many strangers, both those enjoying life and those cursing the gods and lords. I don't even do my own shopping, bless Felicia. Perhaps it's because it feels safer here with my thoughts, not knowing who in the seven Hells I'm supposed to be.

I sweep the bookshelves with my gaze, knowledge of the ages stored on those wooden shelves. One of the few parts of family legacy my mother really insisted on bringing across the sea, valuable or not. Knowledge... It is there, before my eyes and at my fingertips, but it will not grant me wisdom. Naiveté and intellect can gleefully hold each other's hands... So I've been told. Those dusty pages are yet another window. Another way to see the world I feel like I'm trying to be no part of.

There is another quality to this room. The silence. Heavy, but not eerie. Empty, with ample room for rumination. I remember that my childhood was rich in music, one of the privileges of my parents' wealth. Perhaps that's what made me more carefree.

Now I just think. My thoughts dash faster than a race horse, faster than a fleeing cat. From rapier practice with my uncle Thymerus and the thrill of the hunt in the woods, through the copper wire shortages and dockworker strikes, all the way to... The upcoming dinner.

Perhaps that last one feels the most real to me. A true concern of the day.
Of my world, rather than the one outside.

---

This piece might be among my favorite ones to date. When I originally approached  Raironu about it, I was wondering how well my vision would end up being translated into an image. She clearly did not let me down, producing this fantastic, moody work that is so rich in subtle, allegorical details despite its speedpaint level of quality. The differences in light between the room and the outside world, the coldness and the coziness, the pensive expression, many meanings of the color blue, from nobility to depression... It's just excellent.

My own experience of life is shown through this piece, in a way. The figure in a window, a spectator, a non-participant. It brilliantly captures the detachment of watching events unfold, big and small, from the dreary stream of news about the world at large to the lives of people I became acquainted with. All from the safety and solitude of my home, with all the basic needs covered. The dialogues I have with myself, in my mind, being the only one to understand the somewhat bizarre patterns I see and points of view I have. The lack of courage and will to try again to be among people after many failures. I don't know if any of you feel the same. Perhaps you do, perhaps you don't. Art is a beautiful form of self-expression, nonetheless.

The text I wrote for this one is a lore primer for the character you see there. Yes, I finally decided to name the sergal - Archibald Hannes Verdanis, yet another variation related to my original nickname, but a standalone character, nonetheless. Expect to see more of him in the future, since he indicates a new chapter for me - a graceful nobody and a mystery of a person. I surely enjoy the feeling of being inspired to create again, after a prolonged period of burnout.

The author of this exquisite artwork, a skilled, fast and reliable artist is  Raironu - go check her out! A fantastic and smooth commissioning experience. ^^
Her upload: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/64225823/

A bit of a musical treat from me while writing all this: Fogweaver - In the Kingdom of Fog

The sergal species is a creation of  mick39.
Archibald belongs to me.