In the middle of the second tier is a vast circular plaza that boasts not only the city's grandest Ravani fountain at its center, but also is bordered by the bronze towers of Astronomical Keep and the stately ivy-coated buildings of Ravensdale University, the oldest and most prestigious school in the city.
Though the second tier is often raucous with aerobuses, street hawkers, and passersby, Ravens' Plaza always has a stately hush about it. Perhaps the noise is simply lost in its vastness, perhaps the ivy walls absorb any uncouth sound, or perhaps the legends of the Astronomical Keep's ghostly dominion are true.
Raven-robed students flocking around the plaza's scattered tables suddenly fly off at the sound of the clock bell marking a quarter before the hour, books clutched to their chest or safely ensconced in leather satchels. As they flutter off to their classrooms, others swarm into the plaza to take their place.
A small bubble of dark robed students surround a red-headed professor as she crosses the plaza. Her striped cowl marks her as an associate professor while the patterned band around her waist announces she is part of the small but swelling Department of Psychic Studies. Her dress and over-layer are blue and grey, and while their style is somewhat modern, the materials are the sort of durable fabric popularly bought in bulk.
Speaking with her hands, she wanders across the plaza, pausing to sit at the wide brimmed edge of the fountain. With the writhing stone bodies of gods above her and glimmering coins in the water below, she enchants her audience, every warm smile and tilted head beckoning further discourse. At a raised hand and the gentle crackle of psychic energy, a plump spirit perched on the head of a war god floats down to the group and lands on the professor's arm. The conversation continues, with the spirit now serving as a prop.
It isn't until the bell tolls out the hour that the group disbands, the professor nodding goodbye to her students. Then she strides across the plaza, quick steps with short legs, to the looming building that houses her office. She winds down a few narrow corridors, takes a few sharp corners, and reaches a tucked-away hall with dusty sconces. She fishes a key out of her satchel, unlocks the water-stained door enlivened by a brass placard reading AMITY TAVEL, and walks primly into her office.
As soon as the door closes, she shifts. Her shoulders, softened before by a slight forward rounding, are now thrown back and sharp. Her eyes narrow and their previous glow becomes more of a glint. If it was possible for freckles to change from endearing to threatening, then such a thing occurred.
With a harsh sigh and a roll of her eyes, she sits down at her desk and cards through the papers there. Some are essays, some are lecture notes, and a few are letters. Her fingers, skittering like spiders, halt at an envelope addressed in simple blockish writing. With a few deft motions and a thin blade of psychic energy, the letter is opened and carefully examined.
A small smile splits Amity's still face. With a few brisk motions, she pulls out a pen and page and begins to write in a firm but elegant script.
Dear Tallison, the letter begins, it is lovely to hear from you again. Regarding your inquiry...