A Day in the Life of Jaimi Bimkz
A Day in the Life of Jaimi Bimkz

A Day in the Life of Jaimi Bimkz

A Day in the Life of a CagerJaimi Bimkz

Jaimi Bimkz is a human seamstress, lives in the Lower Ward, and is a namer in the Free League. This is her story.

Prologue. An hour before antipeak

Well, out with the formalities first of all then. I’m Jaimi Bimkz, and I’m the best bleaking seamstress in Sigil. The nine stingers I’m getting for my entry on this mimir is about how I live. That said, I’ll be recording tomorrow… I’m off to sleep.

5 hours after antipeak

Woken by the sound of that flock of Astral Streakers that passes every morning about this time, I get up out of bed and wash my face with the water in my basin. I’ve been using the same water for 3 weeks… I use it more to wake myself up than to get clean. Well, while I’m on the subject, I suppose I’ll tell you berks about my kip.

She’s a little second floor kip in an apartment building that sits next to a Bleaker housing project. The old girl has three sparse, dirty little rooms, including my bedroom and bathroom. I like to be at my shop more’n home, it’s nice there. Home is dirty. I haven’t got much in my place ‘cept for the basin, a mirror, my bed, a cabinet where I keep dishes (in case company comes calling… hah), a table with a stool in case I eat at home, and a wardrobe, with my three shirts and two skirts. There’s a crack in the wall, covered by the mirror, and I’m happy I’m only on the second floor lest the ceiling would drip on me. The building itself is a dull, gray, plaster building… like so many others around here.

Well, as I was saying, I’ve just woken up and I need to dress. I put on a burgundy patched up skirt that’s down to my ankles, a grey shirt, and my long grey jacket. I pull my hair back and knot it there, so it doesn’t get in the way of my work. I’ll be going out for a bite to eat now… it’s tough to work on an empty stomach. I probably won’t be back home until much later tonight, as I work in the Market Ward and it’s quite a trek.

Five and a half hours after antipeak

I’m at the Ubiquitous Wayfarer on the edge of the Lower and Clerks Ward, regardless of whatever berks say it’s in the Lady’s. It’s a quant little place that serves primes and planars alike, especially folks that just tripped in from some portal… the kip’s loaded with the sodding things. The place serves up a nice bowl of good, affordable porridge… and doubles as a good place to find new people.

Take that tief over there. She’s wearing last month’s fashion… the shoulder blades, dark cape, leather, crazy black-died hair. She needs something new, and she looks like she has some jink to drop…

“Yes ma’am, I’m talkin’ about you and your shoulder blades. You need to do something about that, where are you coming from, Baator?”

“What’s this insolence? I’m on my way to the Hall of Speakers.”

“Not dressed like that I hope. You need something more colourful, all that grey… people won’t pay attention to you if you’re dressed in only grey and black.”

“I’m a Knight of Entropy, now sod off. This is my military uniform.”

Ahh, well, you can’t win ’em all. Enough of here for now then, time to keep walking. My morning routine revolves around my getting to the Market in time, and it takes 2 hours to walk… even in the morning’s light traffic.

Walking to the Market Ward: Sigil in the early morning

Walking to the shop is a good way to get a look at Sigil… and I’m told that’s what I’m getting paid for.

I’m walking along in this infernal fog now, the light boys are out in force putting out the lamps on the streets. That ragtag bunch don’t say too much during the ‘bright’ hours, they do their jobs then run off to their families to hand over the few greens they made during the night, and then catch an hour or two of sleep before they have to start another long night of wandering the Cage. They’re a hungry lot, and poor for the most part. You can see it in the way their faces are so drawn, and how their eyes are sunken. A real bunch of bloods, the lightboys, there’s no other bunch closer to Sigil except for the dabus.

Besides the fog and the boys, there’s the heavy dust that’s always hanging in the air and on everything… the dust of a thousand planes kicked up by the feet of a million folks. Combined with the fog, the dust makes the air up here tough to breathe for people who aren’t natives. You can always tell a berk is new to the Cage when you see them taking big, deep breathes, or coughing a lot from the dust.

Now, look at this cutter here. He’s a Cager. He has a long, black coat on, a cap on, and high, well worn boots… the kind of boots that you can walk through the Market without getting your feet stomped, or through the Hive without getting knee deep in mud. He’s watching the ground. He’s looking where he’s going, minding his business. He doesn’t care what’s going on around him. He’s going where he’s going. He don’t look funny at passing fiends or primes, he lets them go their ways too. Bar all that about Cagers being stuck up and arrogant. We aren’t. Those are planars who moved into the Cage, got rich, and took the name. True Cagers are the folks that you see and you recognise, but you don’t know their names. The real movers and shakers of the city are the folks you don’t see coming. That guy’s a Cager.

Heh, well, I’m getting nostalgic now. We’re almost there, so I’ll quite rattling.

Five hours before Peak

After an ordeal of a walk, I’m finally outside my shop, deep in the Market Ward. The Cage is just about fully awake now, and folks of all sorts are walking about the streets. Folks that have ripped clothes, old clothes, or not much clothing at all. From my shop (a tan brick building on Copperman Way with one glass panel in the front where I hang my wares, and a sign that says ‘Jaimi Bimkz – Seamstress’ in big red letters), I can see everyone that walks up and down the lane, and sometimes I holler at them to come in and have a look when I’m not busy enough. 

Inside, there’s my desk and workroom, where I keep my inventory and do my sewing. In front is a room with samples of my work—shirts and things mostly, beautiful stuff no-one can afford, but I assure the commoner (don’t get me wrong… I’m not trying to say I’m high up, I’m a commoner myself) I can reproduce the same thing with slightly different materials. I slide the curtain off of the glass plate, sweep the ever-present dust off of the doorstep, and now I’m open and ready for business.

Four and a half hours before Peak

A half-elf just walked in. The poor sod has a rip in the left knee of his pants, and the cuffs of his sleeves and pants are horribly tattered. His clothing is obviously too big for him. He has his hair tied back in a greasy ponytail and his face is shiny from vigorous washing. This is the face of a man who’s afraid to admit he’s a member of the working class… and he’s obviously not a Cager from that Clueless grin he’s got on.

“Can I help you?”

“‘Ello, I’m looking for Jaimi Bimkz… I hear she’s quite a seamstress.”

“She’s me berk, what can I do for ya?”

“Right, I’m Ainland Olsen…” he’d broken an important rule there, it’s not a good thing to give your full, real name to a stranger, “…and I’m looking for someone to make me some clothing.”

“Obviously. You’re here.”

“Yes… right.. well, can you make me a new pair of pants? These ones are getting awfully worn, and I only have two other pairs…”

“Right. Go back to your kip and get changed, and bring those pants you have on back here so I can make a model of them. I’ll dispose of them for you.”

“Sounds grand, saves me the trouble. I’ll be back soon.”

And with the same clueless grin, he turned around and left. He’d just broken another important rule… that nothing is a waste. Those pants of his could hold me off for a year with a bit of mending… and that’s what I intend to do with them.

Four and a quarter hours before Peak

I’m working on some back-ordered shirts made from some Bytopian cotton now…. there’s a troop of gnomes stuck in Sigil that came in yesterday asking for shirts like they have home. I told the little berks I’d get them done for them before they went home, which means I probably have several weeks to finish this project, them being out-of-towners and all. It’ll take the pikers ages to figure out the dark of portals. Either way, they’ll be in tonight asking if I’m done, so I’m working on it. They’ll be paying heavily for this job… eight miniature shirts made of cotton aren’t going to be easy to sell if they bail out.

Three and a half hours before Peak

The poor sod with the big clothes that came in earlier just came back… looking rather flustered and sweaty.

“A bloody confusing place, this Sijil.” He smelled like the Hive.

“Sigil, and yes, a wee bit more confusing than wherever you’re from…” I sneered, “Waterdeep is it?”

“No, Greyhawk City, on…”

Not interested in the origins of this prime, I interrupted… “Nevermind. Have you got your old pants?”

“Ahh, yes, right here.”

“Hmm… ok. Come back in a few hours, and I’ll have a nice pair of new pants for ya.”

“How much will it be?”

“That all depends on how hard a time I have making the pants, what materials I use, lot’s of things. I’ll have a price for you later, now if you’ll excuse me.”

And with that, he left. Spinning new pants for him’ll be a cinch. The fact that he wears them 6 sizes too big means he won’t be picky about sizing. In the mean time, I need to run to the Shaven Ratatosk deeper in the Bazaar to pick up some materials… I’m running a bit low. In this business, going for cloth is like going for groceries. It’s an every other day thing.

Two and three quarter hours before Peak

The Market by this time of morning is a bustling place. Sigil is now fully awake, and the chaos that is our city is now in full swing. Looking about, one can see all manner of folks, Upper and Lower planars alike, as well as barmy factioneers running amok posting Sigil up with their propaganda, a slew of advertisements… from Astral Streakers dropping messages, to Black Marion singing her subtle, coded songs. The touts are all standing about, waiting for the Primes and out-of-towners to start tripping in from the portals that riddle our city… it’s the perfect time of day for such a thing. The Cage is freshly ‘clean’ (or, as clean as she gets with this infernal dust) from the dabus’ nightly patrol, and according to statistics from the Hall of Records, Primes are most likely to come through Sigil at this time of day than any other. Don’t ask what sod thought that fact up.

Anyhow, I’m just outside of the Shaven Ratatosk, a pretty small little fabric shop in the Market Ward specialising in Bytopian furs and silks that’s hidden in an alley that turns off of Risvold Street. The building itself is falling down… the chipped plaster and smashed roof are just two of the building’s redeeming traits. It’s a pity really, the woman who owns the place (Sara DeAngelo, the second best seamstress in Sigil… heh) is the nicest you’ll ever meet, but she’s poorer than anything. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but she has four boys to bring up, no husband, and she’s too proud to send them to the Gatehouse for care. Anyhow, I’m entering the shop now….

“Jaimi, is that you?”

“Lady’s grace Sara, how are you?”

“I’m ok,” she sighs, “but I had to send the boys to work today, the poor dears. I need more money for the rent or the Takers are going to evict us.” This is testimony to her kind heartedness… most folks these days don’t care much for their kids, seeing them as nothing but a mouth to feed.

“Where are they working and for how much?”

“They’re working for Estavan, that ogre chap in charge of the PTC. They get payed a stinger a week each, hardly much at all, and Estavan gets a special discount at the store on things he buys here. I’m probably getting robbed in the long run… I hear that one is rather slippery.”

“I wouldn’t know… I buy all of my material here. Anyhow, four stingers a week is more four stingers more than you’re taking in now, and the work’ll do the lads good.”

She sighed again, a habit of hers when her mind was full, “Maybe so, but I miss them.”

“They’ll be back soon enough, Sara. In the mean time, I need to place an order. I need a bit of cotton for shirts for a troop of gnomes, about a pound I’d say, some burlap for a prime’s pants and a bit of Spire Butterfly silk, for a deva who said he’d be stopping in today. While I’m here, I need a new spool of ribbon too.” I didn’t really need any ribbon… but Sara always had more than she could sell, and wouldn’t accept my charity if I gave her an extra green to support her family with.

Walking about behind her counter, she replied “A deva eh? He’ll be paying a pretty bit I take it?”

“Not as much as I’d hope… those upper planars are cheap. They think because they’re ‘holy’ we should work for them for free.”

“How true, how true. Just give me a second to cut this cotton, and I’ll let you go back to your business then, you can pick up on the side. Good to see you, Lady’s grace.”

“To you as well, Sara.”

With that, Sara DeAngelo walked back into the recesses of her crumbling shop. One could see she was suffering from malnutrition, and has been under distress. Sara loves her littluns, it’s sad to see her in this state. Anyhow, life goes on… her story is another, and I’m sure she’d be happy to tell it for some stingers just like me.

I walk around the side, to her cargo bay and pickup area. I pay the full fifteen stingers for all the material, no more no less… like I said, she don’t take charity. One of her servant boys helps me carry it all back to the shop, silently. He was probably sold into service to her. Children in the city only have a few likely paths… they get sold as slaves, adopted by the Bleakers, or get lucky and have a mother like Sara. This one falls in between having a mother and being a slave… she probably treats him like one of her own. Ahh well, excuse me. I’m getting emotional again over all this.

One and a quarter hour before Peak

I’m back at the shop now. The windows are starting to get that midday dust on them, the dust they always get when the city is all woken up. I dusted them off, headed back over to my tools, and resumed work on those gnomish shirts. I sat and sewed for a while, until something caught my attention (and not much can grab my attention when I’m at work), a deva looking in the window. She’s indescribably clean and beautiful… and seems to glow, even through the dusty, fogged pane of glass. Sure enough, she walks in. Her golden hair is tied back with a silken ribbon, and her lovely dress looks as though it were woven from the stuff of dreams, white as snow. Her milky skin complemented her bright red lips, which started to move…

“Are you Jaimi Bimkz?” she asked. Her words were hypnotising, I felt as though I were half asleep as she was talking to me, drowning in her voice.

“Ye… yes..” I cleared my throat, “Can I help you?” self consciously, I started to twist my skirt.

“Yes, you can. I need a new dress for a ball tonight, would you be able to make me one?” She obviously didn’t know much about the trade… making a dress for a high-up deva takes more than a day.

“Well, it’d be quite a task actually…. I highly doubt it, especially as I have these seven gnomish shirts to do….” before I could finish, she dropped a pouch full of jink on my table, and gold sparkled from inside.

“That’s two hundred jinx, cutter,” she gave a faint grin.

“Um…” I choked on my words and stuttered a bit, “Well, I suppose I may be able to arrange something. How would you like it?” Two hundred jinx is more’n I make in a three months.

“Like this, with gold fibre trimming, but dark red instead of white. Thanks much, I’ll be back a bit later… the ball starts at Antipeak.” With that, she smiled and took her jink, and walked off into the streets.

It was moments before I recovered, and realised the folly of my action… I had broken Imel Bruster’s third rule, You Order It, You Own It. In this case, I just ordered up a dress for a deva, and if I don’t follow through, I own the responsibility. Jink makes a body do some addle-coved things… now I have to come up with a dress by Anti. Bah, I’m off to lunch.


Well, I’ve got a deva to make a dress for in one night. One of the only things that can drown out your own problems is watching someone else’s, and in Sigil, we do that a lot… ‘specially around here. The Hangman’s Court isn’t all that far away, a well-lanned cutter can get there and back in an hour and a half from my kip, and that’s usually what I do for lunch… have a walk up there, watch some poor berk get himself hung, and walk back. It may be kind of gruesome, but watching a sod die gets you to thinking what life’s really all about… it’s good for your mind kinda, when you live like us.

Anyhow, I’m at the Court now… a cobblestone square beaten to smoothness by the countless feet of folks on their last marches, and the others who came to watch. It’s a bare place, there’s practically nothing here except for the lifeless tree, which has a little fence around it to keep folks from prodding its fruit, if you catch what I mean.  Anyway, there’s no execution going today, which is a good thing I suppose… less crime maybe. The dirty cobblestone sea is almost empty, there’s a few like myself having a bit of a snack, but otherwise, it’s too grim a place to attract much attention.

From here a cutter can see most of the high-ups in the Lady’s Ward strutting about with their fine rags on, showing off to all the other rich berks. They wear their finely designed, poorly made outfits, and talk about helping the poor folks of the Cage, bringing in order, and feeding us. Those berks oughta sod off, they don’t know what it’s like to live here. It’s the ‘high-ups’ that give us a bad name as being arrogant and only caring about ourselves. They aren’t true members of the Cage’s society, they belong to their own society, a society of clowns and puppets on strings… the poor berks, anytime now it’ll come crashing right down on them, and the Lady’ll exact her punishment. Oh well, there’s a hope. Maybe that deva’ll get struck down too, and I won’t have to make her sodding dress. Luckily enough, I have quite a bit of some good, deep crimson satin, but the gold fibre I need to track down though.

One Hour after Peak

After a walk through the Lady’s Ward, which is a completely unique place all in itself from the rest of the City, I arrived at Queen Anne’s Needlework, a shop that sells needles of all sizes, cloth of any cut, and thread of any material. The place is a building built of of stone painted an awful lavender colour, with large purple curtains hanging in the huge glass window in front. Inside, there’re aisles and aisles of carpeted floor, lined with many shelves of the most beautiful ingredients for nice clothing on the planes.

I picked out a spool of thread made of liquid gold, and brought it to the counter, where I had to pay out 2 jinx worth of greens and stingers. With a look of distain, the berk at the counter handed me the thread, and watched me as I walked out. They’re always out to get ya, the wealthy ones. They think everyone that doesn’t wear the day’s bizarre fashion and keeps their purse tight is a thief or a barmy. Ah well, the powers’ mercy on the swine… I have a long walk and a long day ahead.

Walking back to the Market: Sigil at Midday

Like I said a bit earlier, the bleak Lady’s Ward is unique of the rest of the City. Whereas the Market buzzes with business, the Clerk’s Ward with pencil pushers running about with memos, the Hive with barmies, and so forth, the Lady’s is silent. It’s a cold and clinical place, where folks usually walk slow and look at the ground, not wanting to draw attention. It could be that way because the Law boys make their homes around here, but it’s more likely that it’s because folks get uncomfortable around high-ups. You heard me earlier, what with that deva, I couldn’t keep my tongue steady. Folks around here are just plain cagey about the other folks… and the fact that the dabus and the Lady herself are occasionally seen floating about makes the place even more bizarre.

It’s easy enough to tell when you’re out of the theoretical boundaries of the Lady’s and arrive in either the Guildhall or Market. As soon as you cross one street or another, it seems as though out of nowhere a wave of people sweep you into their sea. Oddly, much like the city of Dis on Baator, if you look back across the street, you’d think there’s miles of people between you and the Lady’s.

The dust hangs heavy in the air about this time of day, and the announcement that “rain and fog are on the way” from Erish’s Weather Tower almost seem like a joke, like he’s constantly pointing out the obvious to us all. A cutter swift enough can tell if rain’s coming, just by how much the dust sticks to their clothes… on a rainy day, it sticks more. Either way, it usually is rather humid in the streets of the Market… what with everyone walking elbow to elbow, pushing and pulling. The smells of sweat and sometimes blood hang in the air around this time of day. It’s not a rare site to see someone get trampled in the chaos that runs about the streets, or to see a pack of Hardheads descend on some poor berk just cause he looked at them funny. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to spread anti-Harmonium propaganda, it’s just that some of ’em are crooked. I’ve seen good Hardheads too.

Anyhow, this is the time of day that crime hits the market hardest. In the middle of the day, all the scum in the cage descends like a flock of vultures on the Market… cutting purse strings, stealing apples, bashing the poor sods that happen to cross the wrong dark alley. It’s a pity really, and that’s the reason that there’s executions almost everyday… the sods get themselves caught in the act, and being as the Guvners have enough to do besides wasting their time on trials for folks caught redhanded, the Hardheads usually just throw them to the Red Death for judgement. That judgement is usually quite predictable: death. The Mercykillers, I’ve seen, believe that killing a criminal keeps them from wasting the Justice Wheel’s time again by committing another crime. A bit harsh if ya ask me… but it’s not my place to worry about criminals. It’s my place to worry about this dress.

Two and a half Hours after Peak

Well, I’m back in the shop now. After wiping the omnipresent dust off of the window and my desk, I began hitting the needle and thread pretty hard to make that deva’s dress… so far, I have the general form done. It was all going well enough, until that prime came back in… with a ripped shirt, bloody forehead, and reeking like The Speckled Rat.

“Are.. are… my pants completed? I’m in bloody need of new pants I is, are they done?”

“No, I haven’t gotten there yet actually. I’m busy, come back later.” I grabbed for my sheers… forged on Bytopia, they could cut through metal I was told.

“I needs a new pair of pants, damned it! I needs new pants!” He began waving his arms about, and it became obvious that he wasn’t in good shape. I could see he had a big bloody gash on his chest now, it looked like he was in a brawl.

“Listen berk, when I get them done, I get them done. Come back tomorrow. Take a bit of advice too: when you leave the shop, go right across the street. There’s a good place to sleep there… an’ you can come right back tomorrow morning for your pants.”

“But I need ’em now!” he stumbled forward, and crashed onto the floor, unconscious.

I walked across the street to Mrs. Bailey’s Boarding, where Ol’ Mrs. Bailey sent a couple servant boys across the way to get rid of the prime. They probably stripped him clean of his jink too, but that’s his own fault for getting himself all bubbed-up. At least that’s a pair of pants I won’t have to make, he won’t remember to come back across the way if he wakes up… that was quite a bump he had on his head.

Four hours After Peak

After that little bit with that prime, the day finally passed for a few uneventful hours. A few people walked in and looked around, one left a message that he needed pants, but otherwise I got a few more good hours in on her dress. The body of it is pretty much done, except for a few little details and the gold fibre… which shouldn’t take all that long.

Having gotten a lot done, I decided to take a bit of a break… it’s been a rather slow day, what with just one troublemaker, one dress, and only a few shirts on backorder. At times like this I usually take a walk across to Mrs. Bailey’s, she was like a mother to me when I moved in here so long ago, and we usually share a drink. I also have the reason of that sod that crashed in my shop earlier… he’s not going to be able to pay Ol’ Mrs. B., so I’ll have to explain that.

Walking across Copperman from my shop, you come to a three story, blue plaster building with a large oaken sign hanging out front that reads, obviously enough, Mrs. Bailey’s Boarding in big white letters. Mrs. Bailey herself is an old aasimar who’s been helping folks in the Cage out with their problems, giving them board, and just being nice for something like sixty years now. Her age is just starting to show, though one can only guess as to what that age really is… she looks like a healthy 70 year old human which probably means she’s twice that. She has a bit of short black hair that falls about her ears, and is almost wrinkle free skin except for her strong laugh lines. Her almost pointed nose sits below her old brown eyes. She wears an apron most of the time, being as she cooks every meal that a body eats in her house, and her hands are literally fireproof from all the burns she’s received over the years.

Upon walking in, one of her bellhops (who are rumoured are all her grandchildren) escorted me in to the back, to her living quarters, where she lay on her couch resting quietly. Mrs. B’s quarters are actually quite nice, unlike my own. The one downstairs room is quite spacious, with a table and four chairs with a nice silk cloth on it, a long couch, and several chairs around the room… attesting to the fact that she has plenty of relatives. As well, there’s a picture of her father and mother both hanging on the wall next to each other, above a fireplace. By my standards, Mrs. B. and her family are pretty well off.

“Hello Mrs. B., how are you?”  Her mother, as I came to know, originally came from a Prime world where no-one ever came out and said directly what was on their mind, a trait Mrs. Bailey had herself. Small talk was standard in a conversation with her before the point became clear.

“Ahh, hello Jaimi, I’m fine… and how are you today?” She looked up with a smile… she was always happy to talk to anyone but her relatives, which she had many of. Another trait from her home world was that a family showed it’s love of one another by how much they were at each other’s throats.

“Well enough thanks, except for this dress I have to work on, it’s sodding awful work.”

“I know the feeling Jaimi, I know the feeling. Who’s it for anyway?”

“Oh, some deva… but she’s paying quite a bit of jink for it, so she says. That’s why I came over actually, to tell you I’m finally going to pay that debt I owe your husband, now that I’m prolly going to have the coin for it.” Her husband, an explorer, has been wayward for three years… and I don’t owe him a debt. Thing is, she wouldn’t accept money from me to care for that prime I sent over… so that was my way of slipping it in.

“You owe him a debt, eh? What sort?”

“Oh, he picked up a bit of cloth for me on Elysium a long time ago, and I promised I’d pay him. I can’t renege on my word now, can I?”

“Well, of course not, a woman’s word is her dignity… if there wasn’t trust, there’d be nothing.”

“How true, how true.”

“Now then littlun,” she calls me that on occasion… “How about a spot of cha, or qahveh? I have some lovely stuff a prime had Clarion give to me…”

“Sure, why not? I’ve got a bit of time, but not long… I have to finish that dress. I don’t want to be the one to anger an angel now, do I?”

“No littlun, you don’t. Angels can get pretty angry I hear.” She chuckled a bit, and put on the qahveh.

Five and a quarter Hours after Peak

After chat with Mrs. Bailey, and no mention of the prime, I went back to the shop. There was still no mention of new business when I got back, a good thing too… I won’t be able to give any attention to new orders until tomorrow anyway. After a bit of work, I think it’ll be time for a bit more exercise.

Five and a half Hours before Antipeak

It’s about time to get out now then. I finished up the dress in it’s entirety now, except for the gold. I’m off to get a bite to eat at Imel’s, and if I’m lucky enough to find one (it’s the first of the week, and they sell like hotcakes around the market), I’ll pick up a SIGIS on the way.

Walking to Imel’s Happy Tongue: Sigil at Dusk

Walking around now, just between Peak and Anti, is the second best time of day for traffic in Sigil, the first being the early morning. Most folks are either at home or at some restaurant eating, or out back of one scraping for food. The lightboys are coming back out now, though not so much in the market. They start in the Hive and Lower, and work their ways over through the Guildhall, the Clerks, and the Market, finishing in the Lady’s. I figure they start in the darkest wards and work their ways over, being as there’s plenty of light coming from store windows, we don’t need it as much.

Anyhow, the very short walk down Copperman to the Happy Tongue shows more of Sigil than one would think, the Collectors for example. They’re out in force in the Market around now, clearing up the trash folks left behind to pawn for food. As wretched as they are, they perform a service in doing so… they keep the streets clean, though the term is relative. They own only the clothes on their backs, and don’t have so much as a stinger to their names. They live from day to day, gleaning what they can from society’s caring folk, and from whatever they gather from the streets and other places they go to. A creepy lot, they are.

As well, a body might notice about now that the fog seams to be getting a little bit heavier about now… it’s kind of a dramatic thing the City does to tell us all nightfall is on it’s way. Sigil’s fog is probably the thickest in the multiverse, and no prime is said to be able to handle it at this hour… so for the most part, only Cagers (and folks used to the air) prowl the streets about now. That, in turn, means that the Takers and Hardheads aren’t out as much either, as there’s not as many berks to arrest for no reason or tax unnecessarily. In turn, the more chaotic factions run about more, as the Law isn’t out heavily to stop them; folks go about business outside the Bazaar, Anarchists do whatever it is they do, and Xaositects, if they care to at the time, move out of the Hive for their nightly jaunts of chaos.

Well, anyhow, the doors of the Happy Tongue loom ahead… I’m off to eat.

Five Hours Until Antipeak

I decided I was out of the shop enough today, so I got my food and brought it back. A bite of Krigalan Black and a loaf of bread with a spot of wine are tonight’s delicacy. After having a bit of the cheese and bread and just a little wine, I started back at the needle… enough procrastination, it was time to finish the dress. Alas, just as I was about to start, in popped a githzerai… without pants, just undershorts

“Pants need I,” was all that came out of his mouth, and he bugged out his eyes at me like a frog.

“Were you the one who left the message?”

“Me was it, yes. Pair new a me make you can?” He sounded like a new recruit to the Xaositects.

“Yes, surely… I can have them done for you by Peak tomorrow. Would you please write your name on this paper for me?”

“Problem no, righto…” he wrote his name, which read John Thomas Leonard the 4th, Esquire. He looked up, and with a bit of embarrassment he whispered, “Talker dyslexic a I am. World his visiting was I when me on put prime a curse a is it. It shake not can just I.” He laughed maniacally for a moment, then started to walk out, but before he left, he was sure to add, “Peak at back be I’ll.”

With that, the ‘dyslexic talker’ walked out, and I sat there a bit confounded by it… there really are a bunch of barmy savages in this town. Either way, it’s a pair of pants to make.

Three and a half Hours until Antipeak

I’m finally finished! The dress is completely done, now all that’s left to be done are seven gnomish shirts and a pair of pants for a dyslexic-speaking gith. Is it break time again? Ya, I think so. I think a trip over to Chirper’s is in order as soon as she comes to pick it up.

Three Hours until Antipeak

With three hours left in the day, she showed back up, to claim her dress, which is quite a piece of work, and it didn’t cost all that much to make either.

“Hello again Miss Bimkz, you have completed my gown for tonight?” Those were the exact words she said, and they sounded like music.

“Yes in fact ma’am, I did get it done… it’s hanging in the back if you’d like to have a bit of a look.”

“Certainly my dear, please lead the way.”

I led her into the back room, where her dress hung on the wooden frame of a human mannequin. She went up to it, and examined it carefully. I held my breath nervously the whole time, being that my work was under the scrutiny of a deva, and stayed quiet. Eventually, she asked: “What kind of thread did you sow this with?”

“Bytopian cotton, why?”

“Hmm… well, it’ll do I suppose, but I wanted it done with Bonespear silk, the quality is a better. Anyhow, there’s no time for that I realise, so I’ll take it. Thank you Miss Bimkz.”

“Bonespear silk costs an astronomic amount… and I don’t believe you said you wanted it that way.” I was a bit indignant, it’s not a good feeling to have your day’s work ridiculed over an unmentioned detail.

“That’s why, of course, I was willing to pay so much… I thought you’d have known. I’m sorry. It’s a lovely dress still, thank you. Would you wrap it up for me please?”

“Yes, of course. Thank you too.”

In silence, I wrapped it up… knowing I wasn’t going to get 200 jinx for the effort. That’s the way it goes though I guess. I brought it back to her out front, and she put a bag (much smaller than before) on the counter. With a nod and a smile, she left.

One and a half Hours until Antipeak

Well, I’m in the middle of my walk home now. I didn’t hit Chirper’s after all, not enough jink for that. I’m almost halfway there, and the day’s grime is thickest in the streets about now, before the dabus and Collectors come out to clean. For you curious cutters out there, I ended up with only 30 jinx in my palm, which is nothing to sneeze at, but at the same time isn’t nearly as much as the effort was worth. I put off a whole day of work to do that dress, and 30 jinx isn’t all that much to show for it once the cost of material and gold fibre is taken out. I probably could’ve got more from the gnomes. Anyhow, “No use crying over spilt milk” is what my mother would’ve said.

Walking Home: Sigil at Night

Sigil at night is a lot like Sigil in the morning. Not in that everyone’s asleep; they aren’t. The high-ups are out at their parties, the visitors and primes’ve for the most part put in for the night, and sedan chairs (which cause the traffic problems) don’t operate this late. Only natives who commute to their jobs or work late are out, and of course, the lightboys. Right now is their busiest time of day… a cutter can’t walk a block without seeing one.

The fog is lifting a little, and the light is like that of twilight… it isn’t pitch black, but it’s not too easy to see either. As well, the lights inside of the inns and houses are going out now too… so the streets get exponentially darker as more people go to sleep. It’s rather important to get home early if you have a long walk like I do… it’s never good to get caught in a dark alley, even if you’re a native in your own neighbourhood.

There’s mud and such covering the street, which is a bit of a hazard. Sigil is a dirty place to begin with… this time of day though, it’s the worst. Imagine, if you can, a white carpet in your foyer. Know how you make folks take their shoes off before they step on it? Know how dirty and beat it gets if one person does step on it? Imagine a million people constantly stepping on it at once. That’s kinda what Sigil’s dirt condition is like on a dry night.

A half Hour before Antipeak

Home again, home again. Now that I’m back in my room, it’s time to sleep. I hope my take on Sigil has been informative, because this is how I live.


  • More on The Ubiquitous Wayfarer, Copperman Way, Risvold Street, Imel Bruster and his Happy Tongue, The Hangman’s Court, The Speckled Rat, and Chirper’s can be found in In the Cage: A Guide to Sigil.
  • Black Marion, Estavan and the PTC can be found in Uncaged: Faces of Sigil.
  • Erish’s Weather Tower comes from Brix’s Guide to Sigil.
  • Clarion can be found in Cage Rattlers.

Source: Tom Bubul

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