If you've been to the Night Hall before, you know that you'll never see the same thing twice.
It stands to reason that many visitors return daily to view the products and talents, lest they miss something incredible.
The Night Hall has always drawn in buyers and sellers from different walks of life.
From an ex-prince from the isles of a nation now controlled by the military, to underground surgeons and their proteges,
there's always been something in the Night Hall for every creature that walks its ever changing floors.
The name 'Hall' has a certain irony to it, in that it is not one single building, but rather, a conjunction of chambers, joined together through some means (if it's unsavoury or no,
most clients don't ask. I suggest you do the same). Some chambers are private, others are open for rental or multiple fascinations within the same alcove.
Smelling salts next to exotic birds, threaded silks competing with the skulls of creatures you may or may not have seen before. Some visitors are deceivingly well travelled.
A woman of no discernible age clicks the fingers of her right hand, her bejewelled hand seeming unencumbered by the seemingly gaudy rings and bangles on her arm,
but a glint in her eye suggests that her jewellery is more than it appears. Her eyes follow the crowd, latching onto individuals, making eye contact as they pass.
Some are suitably unnerved, but the curious souls dare closer, only to be repelled as if they had suddenly smelled a distasteful odour, and return to the stream of people.
It would be safe to stay away from her. No one knows her name, but she only sells to those she selects, not the other way around.
After her visitors make their purchases, they either return every day until their mortal demise (there have been no long-lived being that have bought from her yet, thank god),
or never return at all. Just a word of advice from an observant citizen.
A tall, limber man in ragged clothes stands quietly to the side of one of the large centre chambers. He is a regular visitor, as many are to the Night Hall.
His nose is hooked like a raven's, apt, since he is never sighted without one of their kind on his hunched shoulders (The raven is not always the same bird. Trust me).
His eyes are dark and uncertain, often darting between moving crowds and the eager sellers in their uniquely decorated stalls. The things he buys seem random, erratic.
A human skull, a rose that never wilts, burnt wood from the Ebony Wilds. But there is one thing that all of this strange figure's purchases fulfil. The raven always chooses.
Irene wanders through the winding expanse of the Night Hall. It is her first time being in this establishment, but so far she has made no purchases.
Her hair is long and wild, ringlets bursting out of her bright orange bandana, covered in the unmistakeable patterns of her people.
She is alone, like many who come to buy and browse the Night Hall's vast chambers. She keeps her small purse close to her chest, suggesting that she has only meagre coin to spend.
It is not wise to visit the Night Hall without money. If you do, the Night Hall may just claim you for its own.