Been working on a little cityscape description:

The lanes of Nyunicaä are not streets. They are the gaps between buildings: narrow and winding and twisting without logic. Two people might pass abreast in the wider throughways. But in the narrower ones—of which there are a great many—one must turn to pass. Buildings rise high here on either side; three, four, sometimes five stories tall. And they are hewn of a pale stone, as is all the city, carved from the same white basalt as its surrounding cliffs. It has been worn smooth by the passing of the years, and slopes gently downward toward the river such that wastewater and spilled goods all find their way there eventually.

I pass into the city then and notice first its stink: there is the frying oil of food vendors who set their stoves at the mouths of alleys, the ozone tang of a limbwright's shop, and the cured hides of leather workers. There is incense: small alcoves carved into the city at irregular intervals, housing figures and tokens and offerings of food and small, slow-burning candles. 

These are the temples of Nyunicaä, as I have come to know them, and they are thousands.

They are the niche in a wall some three feet high, containing a figure of soapstone. It was the shape of human once, perhaps. Though now it is smooth and featureless.

A courtyard then, accessible through a gap so narrow I nearly pass it. Inside there is a tree of great age—an argentophyte, I think—growing out from a basin of crushed basalt. The tree's bark is dark and fissured and warm to the touch, and strips of cloth are tied to the lower branches. There are hundreds of them, each a faded colour, each softened by time into a muted palette which makes the tree seem as though it is flowering. An old man is sat beneath it now, praying. He does not notice me.

These represent the religious life of the city, I think. Though you will find no doctrine to them. They are the temples between things, dedicated to the small gods, the old gods, and to no god at all. They are the places where people have, for reasons they cannot articulate, simply decided to pause, mark, and then return to. Some are tributes to the ancestral dead, while others still serve as votives — the small oblations rendered unto a thousand dreaming divinities. All are worshipped, and none seem in conflict. For instance, there exists a lane wherein a shrine to Agos resides. He is the small god of decisions and concerted effort, whose mountain corpse is said to be the very birthspring of the river Argosi. And yet, alongside it there lies also a shrine to his antithesis: to Soga, the god of old memory and daydreams, whose kingdom is that of Noesis. Despite this, each is venerated in equal measure—often within the same passing, by the same people—such that neither is neglected.