In the middle of the city, splitting it in two like a pockmarked white scar, was the wide, dried-up riverbed. Only thieves lived there; the round rocks covering the ground where water once flowed offered adequate cover and protection from the Greenswards. Then again, everyone in Dust City was a thief. So over the years, shacks had been built on the uneven stone of the riverbed. Shacks, and then houses, and eventually, in the very centre of the dried-up land, so far away from either bank that you could scarcely see it, was built a tavern. The tavern's name was The Last Hurrah, and its tenants were the folks who were indeed about to have their last hurrah. They were big, rough thieves, the lot of them, dangers to themselves and others as well, and only just barely controlled by their master Orlin's iron fist. But even they would not go outside the tavern walls on the nights when the wind howled mournfully and the frost was so cold that you could see crystals forming in the eyes of those coming in from outdoors. They would not go outside when the moon was full, and you could hear the ghost of the ancient river flowing past outside, forgotten. Because as hardened as they were, as many throats as they had slit, they still knew and were terrified of her. They would huddle around the fire, spreading their rough, worn hands to the welcoming glow of the flames, and then and only then would they even dare to whisper about her, in hushed tones so quiet that the ghostriver outside could almost drown out their voices. It was said that she was an old woman, old and broad, her back hunched over like something was hatching from it, dressed in rags with a walking stick in her hand and a huge bag across her back. It was said she could be seen in the distant moonlight, winding her way between the rocks (because she never left the riverbed, there was enough sorrow and pain there even for her), and the listener could hear a soft clink, clink from her bag. Some murmured that she would flicker in and out of sight as she walked, but they all agreed: as you stood there, watching, she would slowly come closer. And by then it was too late, of course, and just as she reached you she would stumble, her grey canvas bag splitting open at the seams and dozens and dozens of glass bottles, all of different colours, and shapes, and sizes, tumbling out onto the ground. Curiously, not one of them would break. And, being respectful, you would kneel to help pick them up, and she would smile down at you, a clear glass bottle held in her hand. Then, you would forget, and as you forgot, the bottle would change colour, filling with the essence of a memory too beloved to you to lose, sometimes your only beloved memory... and then she would be gone, winding her way in the distance towards some other victim, the glass bottle with your joy and hope in it clattering against the others in her sack. The thieves of Dust City did not have enough joy, so they stayed as far away from her as they could and wondered why sometimes their hearts ached in ways they couldn't explain.
