Even in the bright morning light the district of Enderís Run is a dark foreboding place. The streets are tight and winding, a true accomplishment for a finger of land so narrow one could almost toss a rock from one side to the other. The old ramshackle buildings lack proper gutters and rain-barrels collect runoff, while the broken neglected cobblestone roads are nearly mud in many places. The sewers of the area are likewise poorly kept and clogged with twisted grates tangled flotsam and jetsam. The baseboards of most buildings are rotted and jagged with age and the creeping advance of mold and mildew. A foul, fetid odor permeates many of the older buildings, whose once fine plaster walls are blistered and stained with years of decay. Enderís Run is more the rotten underbelly of the city than even Blackbeam, a festering wound and blight on the great city in the minds of those in power, elsewhere.
As you approach the district the hustle and bustle of daily routines is obvious. Smoke from cooking fires and the clop of the wagon horseís hooves on the occasional cobblestone mingle with the cool morning breeze off the bay which fails to drive the lingering stench from the streets.
The dock Sherpish runs is silent, a laden vessel waits patiently to be unloaded, some of her crew lounge around the deck listless and bored. You see no sign of any workers.