There is nothing stranger than the undefined. Scratch that; there is nothing stranger than the undefinable. The undefinable lacks existence because anything that may be perceived is automatically defined by how it is perceived and who perceives it. Therefore, that which is undefinable need not be defined since such phenomena do not find their way into the mental processes of mortals with natural inclinations toward labeling and understanding, sometimes just labeling without something as undesirable as understanding. Understanding, for the sake of argument, shall be defined as sensation comprised of logic and empathy, an action ultimately producing one reaction: something makes sense and acceptance that it makes sense. Therefore, everything is undefinable until it is perceived, and after perception comes understanding. Following understanding, we get definability.
Continuing off the notion of sense, there is a large city situated between several intersecting fords, in a hilly space not too far from a realm of azure known as an ocean. The city is comprised of several very definable districts, starting from the east: a series of slums, homes that would stifle the enthusiasm of any individual who fancies symmetrical subtleties. Some might hold a preference for dwellings aesthetically defined by mediums of color such as paint rather than dirt and grime, or smudgy crap.
However, practically speaking, every establishment succeeds in its intended purpose of housing individuals so that they may avoid nature’s misgivings, such as cold, rain, and occasional vampires at night. Moreover, the slums are an environment architecturally in favor of familial unity for the way each single-room parlor, on average, shelters between 3 and 6 family members. But where the real distinction lies between it and the rest of the city is in the pungent, putrid, placid, paranormal smell that spontaneously creeps into one’s nostrils while wandering some random vestige of a nook within those slums; it turns out there are some undefinable things that can be perceived; the smell is one, because nothing can demand so much strife in the effort to procure a definition as a peculiar, disagreeable scent that can only be produced through the various definable, and otherworldly particles accumulated over time through multiple sources no one has cared to record in the long, unheeded history of the planet.
Transitioning into the western part of the city, where the smell begins to fade, there are houses made up of cement, miraculously facilitating several rooms, as well as multiple stories. But before fully delving into the west, between it and the slums lies a pristine, gothic-style chapel bearing some ornamental likeness of a heron. This chapel was a crossroads between east and west, maybe north; the paved roads attach themselves to a ring perfectly encircling the building, extending its lines in southwest, southeast, and one shooting directly north towards that district. The chapel, more often than not, bears attendants solely from the eastern district, with the occasional western inhabitant crossing over out of mere convenience. On no occasion was there a man or woman who willingly trekked down the northern road to attend. Just as well, both eastern and western denizens find the northern aristocracy enjoy congregations beyond the normal paradigms of dullness.
Such unspoken uniformity of a city makes it all the more baffling when one man dressed in silk tresses and elegant robes turns up dead one morning before the chapel, without so much as a ring flopped from his fingers full of gold. A scream might have been heard, which alarmed an otherwise quiet crossroad to the unfortunate soul lying mutilated in the humble street. Some citizens began gathering around the corpse, those who could bear its split sight. But nobody from the east. City authorities were quick to respond to the gathering crowd; guards prudently formed a perimeter around the scene, a scene that utterly baffled them. Onlookers could tell that the victim came from the northern district, and that was the most confusing fact of the entire scene. It was the state of the corpse that instigated such a large gathering and mass confusion.
There was more to the man’s death, evident since the city guard, in their cluelessness, sent word to the governor to seek outside assistance. People would talk about the daunting crime for some time afterward, seeking answers through their own speculation concerning the why and the how, especially the how. Whatever the case, people were frightened.
Despite the constant chatter, nobody would utter the taboos sifting through public perception. No answers came to light in a city-wide investigation. Yet one city district was never searched.
A few days later, a lone rider was seen on the southern horizon, riding astride a powerful, dark bay Stallion. He entered via the southwestern road around midafternoon, a curious figure before all the strangers roaming the streets, though no one could see his face through the long cloak passing over him. They could see the leather strapped boots, a gilded grip of a longsword sheathed aside the saddle, and a unique metal gauntlet with archaic engravings worn on his right arm; the left arm covered and wrapped in linen bandages. Everyone paid him scrupulous attention, but obliviously passed onlookers. His eyes only occasionally fell on the evergreen gardens resting along the ford bank, stretching across the western district. Eventually, the rider arrived at that very crossroads where the incident occurred two days ago; it was there he paused and ran his eyes up and down the chapel. Through lingering, he drew more attention. The denizens could tell that this was an outsider looming over what had become a haunted space; his presence slowly started cultivating their suspicion. Before departing, he pulled from his cloak what appeared to be a plain strip of paper. Curiously enough, he licked said piece of paper and held it up in the direction of the chapel. Nothing happened as far as witnesses could tell. This was just a man holding up a piece of paper before a city chapel, caring nothing for anything or anyone else. Eventually, he resumed his gallop north, leaving the locals to go about their business. Remarkably, not one among the curious inhabitants had noticed the piece of paper turn blue.
The north rendered the rider more conspicuous than in the west. Not only did the locals, radiant in their layered fabrics and elegant jewelry, pay him extra attention, but they also impressed upon him such demeanor of a slighted sort. In their eyes there was no justification for this perceived intrusion into their locality; it was unwarranted and inconsiderate. The rider never paused nor displayed intent, this being the observation that sparked their dissatisfaction. Soliciting is an act frowned upon by those few who would maintain that company be esteemed and courteous. Therefore, their superficiality construed this stranger’s dallying as a fallacy of familiarity. But the stranger kept his head down and couldn’t stop from thinking, this road has begotten cleanliness in the past five minutes. 573Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGWGuBOuFaU
Feeling compelled to look up, he did so and visualized the various manors comfortably nestled around wider, paved streets, full of yards, fences, fountains, and an overall better view of the mountains. To top everything, there were no odors hovering in the highly sanitized district. The trot was much easier with fewer people about, and eventually, he came upon the large town center, a grand marble domain of three stories; two square pieces encompassed an ovular center. The roofing and window panes were an opaque blue, contrasted rather vibrantly against the elegant marble. Like the rest of the manor-hood, a surrounding garden neutralized the bustle of the urban environment.
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