"Thank you for your work today," the clerk says as Ffion leaves the office. She half-bows at the door. "Thank you for your custom." Then, as the door shuts, she turns to the rail and looks out over the broad sweep of the city. She can just about make out the waterwheels turning in the dim depths, but the river itself is too far down to see. Bridges span the divide up and down-stream, elegant arches and seemingly makeshift stubby efforts which have lasted longer than seems reasonable, small bridges with just enough space for two people to pass each other next to the largest, which have multiple levels and buildings stretching out along their length. In the cool twilight the city is coming alive with the flicker of lamps in windows, streetlights being attended to by lamplighters, and torches carried by pedestrians venturing into the less-lit areas. The buildings opposite her lofty balcony are aglow with the last rays of the sun, and the contrast with the firefly depths below takes her breath away. She gazes at the city, as she always does when she has a job at this firm, but this time something catches her eye. Someone is walking over one of the bridges - a medium-size affair, nothing special - someone with a hat, and a slightly halting gait, and a scruffy cloak, and most notably, a long dark braid. She frowns. "That's not the way to the Wizard's Guild Hall."