Visit the Murky Sisters and their rooftop atelier

It begins innocently enough. The Murky Sisters serve kahwe and honey cakes, the three of you seated amidst paint and plaster. Unfinished statues peer down at you and sketched portraits grin like bony corpses, broken free from some forbidden book. The shadows fall long, the candlelight casting your hosts in sinister shade.

But the cakes are delicious.

Your mind and eyes do wander; from one Sister to the other, and from the paintings to the gypsum sculpts. There are clear similarities in the artwork, each piece connected by style and theme. More striking, however, are the differences. Subtle at first, the shifting light reveals each in turn. The Murky Sisters differ in art, in the way their dark hair falls in the twilight, and – most importantly – in temperament.

Only a minuscule amount of time has passed

{if The Passage of Time > 95} Your Time in Barenhaven is running out {elseif The Passage of Time > 80} Your Time in Barenhaven is coming to a close {elseif The Passage of Time > 60} You have some Time left in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 50} Your Time in Barenhaven is half-way over {elseif The Passage of Time > 30} You have quite some Time left to spend in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 15} You have a lot of Time left to spend in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 5} Your Time in Barehaven has just begun {else} You are now spending Time in Barenhaven {endif}

”You look well,” the lighter one says, apropos of nothing. ”Striking.”

”Like hewn from marble,” the darker adds, though her tone of voice is acidic.

”We have been wondering,” they say in unison. ”If you’d be willing to sit for a piece. If you might be so kind. Please...”

Your eyes wander to their finished pieces, ghastly in the weak light that filters through the heavy curtains and creeps up from the dingy streets. A naked youth torn to shreds by striped beasts. A church saint, stone in the classical style, wielding his cock in place of the shepherd’s crook. Monsters lurk, perched on oily tables and with their appendages engorged to farcical sizes.

Hounds should not have tentacles.

And you can guess what kind of piece they have in mind for you. Their art is not subtle, and their hungry grins are less so. You remember how they whispered among each other back in Corpser’s Point, lewd words but loud enough for you to overhear.

”Do not be afraid,” the lighter whispers, her voice soft as spider’s silk. ”It will be enjoyable. Hard but enjoyable. Hard and enjoyable.” She giggles.