The dark sky cast a subtle hue across the city; the tranquil silence was as chilling as the snowy weather. Howling winds swept through Ceaser's room in the inn, swaying the glass bottles suspended by woven ropes and the defenseless curtains.
He lay wide awake on his bed, his hand hovering by the frame as he soared into deep thought. Ceaser had found a small inn on the "Western Nickel Side," a small district in the city. Ironically, the city's name was also North Pole—a slightly comical reference.
Ceaser's chest was heavy. The robotic behavior of the innkeeper and some of the residents greatly bothered him; calling it strange was putting it lightly. He twisted and turned on the soft, bread-like foam, his eyes drained of energy yet his facial expressions active.
