Clack & Ratty's Theater

Far below the glimmering city of An-Tyr, buried in the belly of the towering metropolis is the Tumbledown District, hidden city of outcasts. By its very nature An-Tyr builds upon itself like a decadent layer cake of metal and brick. Everything in the Tumbledowns was new once, shiny as a freshly minted copper piece sparkling in the sunlight. Now that copper piece was filthy, tarnished, coated in a sticky substance that no one really knew what it was but it held onto the grime, not even able to hide the old metallic stench.

No one cared what the place looked like. Except perhaps a few scholars and archaeologists from the upper city who were not allowed to see the once grand architecture. Any requests of that nature put past the sector custodians was greeted with scorn and no passage granted. Streetlamps still lined the near empty thoroughfares. Carts no longer jauntily bustled over the brick boulevards transporting goods to well to do customers. Between mandatory shifts of the workers the streets remained desolate. Archaic advertisements still dotted the structures, signs remaining merely as nameplates of what various buildings were originally for. Multiple generations had passed since daylight last reflected off of the storefront windows, generations more since the buildings first opened their doors to eager shoppers.

A short meander down the once glorious Fitzclarence Road sits the formerly acclaimed Clack & Ratty's Theater. The richly dressed patrons no longer fill the hall with the low murmur of voices as the the lights dim and the footlights illuminate the stage; uproarious laughter billowing forth as an actor stumbles over some invisible obstacle, catching himself just in time before he fell, only to sheepishly look around and adjust his hat as he hoped no one saw his blunder; sniffles and discreet fluttering of lacy handkerchiefs dabbing at moist eyes after a deeply moving scene; cheerful clapping accompanied with a smattering of exuberant cheers as the curtain drops.

Faded grandeur clung to the interior simply because the craftsmanship no longer had worth to the Tumbledown residents. These days the theater only had one permanent patron. Velvety red posh seats carelessly unbolted or ripped from the floor only to be tossed in the corner. Cleared out to make room for a monstrous and filthy boiler. The bloated thing dominated the space as if a gluttonous tróll had made its way in where he proceeded to sit down and eat from an endless bag of food. Pipes disappeared through the detailed plasterwork, smashed through since access was a higher priority than preservation. Metallic hoses went in every direction, connected to some vast unseen network as if it were a gravely ill patient in the hospital connected up to various tubing. Periodically the metallic monster rumbled. The chandelier resting against the boiler, merely pushed out of the way during construction, still dangled from the ceiling. Sadly the glass shards jingled lamenting all the lost beauty.

The stage itself did not manage to go unscathed either. Grand posh curtains hung in shambles. Pieces hacked out at some point along the line, turned into bed curtains for some greedy local magistrate, setting themselves apart from the lowly rabble. Dust and soot coated the once beautiful floorboards of the stage. They too contained multiple cavities filled with even more pipes. Sadly the footlights shone on, weakly illuminating the horrific damage time and progress had brought. Perhaps it was best that the once magnificent structure remained shrouded in darkness; to hide the reality from the carved blank eyes of the figures tucked away in their alcoves no longer viewable from the crushed balconies. They could sleep in ignorance that they were now mere useless ornaments in an overly decorated boiler room.