Zanoor

A Story by KrankyMarx

a description of a city in a fantasy setting

Zanoor City

This city is one of the setting from a novel I am currently working on called 'The Corumbian complex'

The dank, wet turgid smell of the air is the first thing that you notice in the city of Zanoor, Capital of Muckyasa. Ankle deep mud permeates the lifeless ground littered with discarded faeces,rotting food and after a weekend brawl usually a body part or two. One of the worst smells is from the rotting timber struts that hold up the decaying timber frames of abandoned warehouse, long since occupied by the plethora of orphans, w****s, thieves and ne’er do wells that fill these overcrowded street in the forlorn hope of a better day.

There were gutters once, their stone paving long since pilfered to repair some form of damage to the ageing corps that was once the merchants quarter, which now act as a conduit for the stream of rats coming to and fro from the Yarte river to the east, their brown fur thick with the filth of the populous; a mocking parody of the city itself. If you head to one of the alleyways which litter the city like a rabbits warren, winding aimlessly like so many of the citizens, the roar of brothels and tavern will greet you as warmly as the drunkard does his barkeep, a cacophony of sounds and smell determined to overwhelm the senses to a state of nullity, a state preferred and essential to many.

Mayhap you will see one of the floor grills, built by unknown benevolent people in ages gone past to carry liquid waste to the Yarte, now used as gateways for fugitives, assassins and degenerative diseases, the steam billowing from the comes from no-one knows where but is know to be the only source of warmth for the street urchins in Zanoor. When it stops snowing here it rains in a cycle of drudged weather that suits the mentality and countenance of those whom it oppresses, like a bad form of civil control by an atmospheric government demanding greydom from its subjects.

Nothing is welcoming here, the gallows in the main square are testament to this, bodies hang from it all year round in varying forms of decay urging all to toe the line, however imperceptible that line is, the pools of bodily fluid long since evacuated act as a meeting place for all manner of parasites and vermin to congregate, and the most destitute to find a source of protein; animal or otherwise. Dominating the landscape is the Fortress of Souls, an expansive granite structure brooding on Mount Demanos, its scarred battlements glaring menacingly at the sprawl below with it's giant wrought iron portcullises acting as a snarling maw daring any to disobey. The flag of the republic waves unperturbed in the wind aloof and superior to the suffering and malcontent of those who placed it there. It is not wise to look upon the Fortress to long less one of the few dark suited long faced guards perceives this as treason and exacts a 'tax' from you. They are mostly stationed at the solid granite guard house in the centre of each district borough, the blank walls and barred windows always accompanied by the screams and pleas of innocence and mercy from the denizens of the lower cells colloquially called 'hotels' by those brave enough to say anything.

The one redeeming feature of this abyssal perdition is the Rose of Saint Timyan the just, a solitary white rose measuring merely 17 inches rises from the spot of her martyrdom in the city centre, no mud, rat, parasite or unruly guard can uproot it (and many have tried) it is an area of pilgrimage for the lost; of which there are many, and serves as the rose of hope regardless of the cage it now languishes inside defying the squalor of its neighbours and bolstering any feeling of hope that this succubus of a city lets people retain.