Sigil: City of Doors

This is a silly game that I've seen played on Usenet and such places: one person writes the beginning of a story, and anyone else can continue it in whatever direction they want. So here goes, I'm making the start and if you want to continue it, quote the last paragraph you are basing your own contribution on and continue on the bottom. Write whatever you like! :lol:

Sigil... some call it the center of the multiverse, some call it the Cage. A place of terrible danger but also of the greatest opportunities... though if a creature ends up in the Hive, it's mostly the bad opportunities that crop up. Here in the Hive, the air is almost unbreathable because of the terrible stink, the streets are dotted with mud puddles and rain often collects in brackish pools that sometimes have the size of small lakes. The denizens of this most foul of places are muggers, gamblers, any sort of criminals and all sods who live at the margins: for many people of the Hive life is very hard and full of despair, with death waiting at the end. This night, even the hardest of scum have taken refuge from the torrential rain. A small, lone cloaked figure cowers in a filthy corner, seeking shelter from the downpour.

Pheran Troth stared miserably at the astral deva that glided down the street. He glared sullenly at the gleaming white feathers that kept the rain from her golden hair, all the while muttering under his breath. "Piking sod...too good for the rest of the Cage, with your nose held up in the air."

Cold water that smelled vaguely of sulphur trickled between his shoulder blades, causing him to shiver slightly. He had a brief moment of pleasure when a guilty-looking halfling ran by, pursued by two Harmonium officers. Mud from three pairs of feet sprayed up onto the deva's shining white robes, and she shouted after them in vexation as they bolted past.

Laughing quietly to himself, he never noticed the berk who deftly cut his purse...

Almost 2 hours passed until Pheran actually noticed that his purse was gone. He cursed quietly. It had been a nice purse. He had stolen it off some dopey Prime berk just a week earlier and had used it as a decoy ever since. His REAL purse was well hidden, but he lamented nonetheless that some fool had actually snatched the fake one from him. "I'm getting old, and slow", he thought, "and being slow means being dead in the Hive...". His mood already soured after 2 weeks of constant rain (Had it EVER rained this much? What was going on?) he started casing for a mark to rob. Flitting through the abundant shadows, he saw a squat, short, heavy figure sillouetted in the sparse light: a dwarf. A fat little bag hung on the warrior's belt, which seemed to scream "Take me with you!" to Pheran the Rogue's devious mind.