Riddlegard was once as a city of poets, who wore bandaged tweed cloaks and caught the city as it flowed into the streets- replenishing itself with song and dance and drink. It was a city of full of regrets and stupidities and passing affairs.
Today, all of the houses in the city have plaques bearing the names of the famous poets who lived there. The homes are all well kept- their tables varnished and windows reflective- sprinkled with carnations or dressed to look like old monuments to restless minds, with the writing quills still wet in the ink wells.
The poets wrote of a city that is now dead. It has been replaced by a city of poets. Their house plaques cannot be replaced, in the event that a greater poet live in his lesser’s old house. Then again, the city invites neither poets nor poetry. It is a only fortress of memories.