I arrived today in [[San Sibilia]], having caught the overnight ferry from from the imperial capital. For a city so close to the centre of the empire, so close to the insatiable maw that was even now devouring territory it had little need for, it had a strange way of seeming to resist the cultural hegemony that quickly overtook other territories that resisted annexation.
Some regions resisted direct imperial control, perhaps through geographical luck, like [[Bawat]], whose mountainous terrain defied every ambitious legionnaire general that chanced their [[Floriades]] on a tilt at the windmill province, or even agro-geographical un-luck in the case of [[Pinot]]; some regions yoked by imperial administration resisted the cultural exports that flowed like something half way between a burst dam and spilt blood, creeping under doors and such, by holding on to who they were and what they stood for before the empire came knocking with games, music, and gods. Very few did both.
Of course, [[San Sibilia]] has always been there, even been a decently important trading partner. It stayed independent long after the surrounding territories fell under the sway of the empire, but it seemed like emperor after emperor had no taste for conquering this little morsel, no matter how immense their appetite for expansion was in other directions.
It was the place that people went to disappear. Rumour had it that [[Emperor Tarkin]] himself retired to an estate just a few miles from the city, or was it a walled compound in the dockside neighbourhood of [[Saltspray]]? Little matter I guess, he was 75 at the time of his abdication so it's unlikely he's still breathing the sandalwood scented air of the city and its surrounds.
Rich imperials were embarassed, I think, of what they pushed the empire to do. 'Disappearing' from public life to the heathen city as if it would wash clean their hands, stained purple with the ink that committed the breadbasket of the empire to famine because the capital could pay top dollar for grain. Well, they could, until it became clear that when you starve the people who make your food to death, there's no one left to make your food anymore.
I digress, writing I admit after having indulged at the incense house before returning here to the room I've let above a bakery. Strangely it seemed that they were expecting me when I followed my nose seeking something a little fresher than the dross we were furnished with on the ferry. The room is in a dreadful state, I'll have to give it a decent clean and air out tomorrow.
A nice enough bloke, the baker. Acted like we'd known each other for years, recalling tales of our supposed exploits. I didn't have the heart to remind him that we'd never met.
The proprietor of the incensory was frightfully rude when it came time to fix up, the bastard extorted me for 4 crabs, prattling about how they're not 'legal tender' here. He flatly refused to pick up the ones showing heads until I flipped them over. Not a fan of the emperor perhaps.
Tomorrow's mission, aside from cleaning out this pigsty, is to replenish the supplies I depleted on the way over and make contact with [[Brother Marcus]], who failed to meet me at the docks on arrival as the abbot had advised me he would. Wish me luck!