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Walls of glass and towers of smoke rise high above the cobblestone streets;
Blending into a mist.
Beyond all our reaches--caressing the sky--
Meeting the Angel, Raziel, as his spirit descends among dust and dirt and smog and the wonderful smells of street vendors selling potions and exotic spices to their warlock customers. Gleaming weapons guard those who own them because here, in Idris, no law prohibits the use or carrying of deadly, overly-expensive, and very shiny weapons.





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