You speak to me of the City of Red Waters? They called it Bloodhead, once, before the beautification efforts. The river ran red then, once, as the rosebushes so prolific upon the banks shed their leaves, casting thorn and briar down into a river. The sun setting kissed the horizon and the petals shot the water through, such that from anywhere in the city, that line of bright, vivid blood ran down her heart. Poor town, then, with worn-down cobbles bought from the Paviors when they were tearing up highways. Nothing but workers, then, people sitting on their front-steps, playing old tunes and laughing while the children shared their toys and practiced at being adults. That was before, though, with its brutal, terrible name and its horrible reputation. That was before the Saltiers, with their chimney-stacks and their gossipping bureaucrats and their fff- sorry. But the river still runs red, though all the rosebushes are dead. Now the slurry-pumps and gouting sluices spray their foulness into the waters every afternoon. Bloodhead no more, the Saltiers want their city to sound nice and respectable – they call it Rosewater. No more poor people on their front steps, no more afternoon songs. They aren’t respectable. The smoke in the sky makes the sunsets purple and hazy, not the glorious white-and-gold… the river runs red all the time, now – sheened atop with something that looks like it burns.