It's a small, rundown studio shop in-between two bigger businesses in the suburbs of Nabias that catches your attention. It doesn't seem to have much going for it, but there's a strange, curious charm to it. The works of the one who crafted this place knew what to do; time and neglect seemed to be the culprit of this state of affairs.
The door creaks loudly; a bell clangs awkwardly and loudly, tolling in your ears. The inside, perhaps surprisingly, doesn't smell like humidity or musky. It does look the part, however, with squeaking stairs that lead to seemingly nowhere. Some signs on the walls, though, keep indicating up, up, up the stairs.
Another door. That one looks a little bit better, but not by much. The lights are on, and you can feel the presence of somebody in there. You knock. After a few seconds, the door buzzes, and it opens.
An anthropomorphic Kuhna is the presence that greets you upon entering the small studio. Whoever they are, they don't stray from their work on the easel. "Made it all the way up here, huh?" they say, with a voice that sounds rather high, arguably feminine; but they certainly presented as masculine.
"You looking for some art?" the cat asks, glancing up, finally. "Got a commission? I don't have anything better to do right now," he says, and he points to a small booklet by the door. "Write it down, and I'll get to it," he explains. "Hope you're okay with subpar stuff, but I charge cheap. Beggars can't be choosers."
The door creaks loudly; a bell clangs awkwardly and loudly, tolling in your ears. The inside, perhaps surprisingly, doesn't smell like humidity or musky. It does look the part, however, with squeaking stairs that lead to seemingly nowhere. Some signs on the walls, though, keep indicating up, up, up the stairs.
Another door. That one looks a little bit better, but not by much. The lights are on, and you can feel the presence of somebody in there. You knock. After a few seconds, the door buzzes, and it opens.
An anthropomorphic Kuhna is the presence that greets you upon entering the small studio. Whoever they are, they don't stray from their work on the easel. "Made it all the way up here, huh?" they say, with a voice that sounds rather high, arguably feminine; but they certainly presented as masculine.
"You looking for some art?" the cat asks, glancing up, finally. "Got a commission? I don't have anything better to do right now," he says, and he points to a small booklet by the door. "Write it down, and I'll get to it," he explains. "Hope you're okay with subpar stuff, but I charge cheap. Beggars can't be choosers."