[Outside] Six massive ornate pillars sculpted from granite hold a roof of clay shingles with gold trim thirty feet above the bazaar known as High Market. It stands at the heart of a raised city square, which itself is a hub for eight roads, like spokes on a wagon wheel, each approaching from a different cardinal direction.

[Inside] An array of goods—domestic and foreign— overflow the stalls: local eggs, poultry, and ale, along with exotic wine, silk, and jewelry. Over the roaring of the crowd, you hear a merchant disagreeing with a potential purchaser on the value of sausages, while two philosophers debate next to an impatient fletcher who complains they are scaring away patrons. You smell a sweet aroma as a woman sprays samples of perfume at anyone passing by.



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