There are four bridges in Sancheffle. The oldest bridge, situated just before the river bends, links the two main markets in the town. Many years ago, the two markets were contiguous, straddling the old bridge and bustling with fruit stands and trinket sellers. The bridge burned. Ever since, the two markets have grown ever more distinct and separate, as the police patrol the bridge all day, ensuring that no stands and markets ever cluster there again.
The second oldest bridge is further west and was built into one of the towers of the old city wall, since torn down. A newer gate, built to match the older one was built on the other side of the river, and a grand basilica stands just beyond that portal there. The third and fourth bridges connect to the newer areas of the city. The third was built in conjunction with a palace during the short-lived reign of a now-deposed tyrant. Lower round houses stud the approach and formerly housed the tyrant’s guards. Impassable without express permission from the king, it led directly into the palace walls, a den of pleasure far removed from the squalid city.
The newest bridge, a gruff hulk of stone stout and massive, was built to temporarily connect two neighborhoods of the city while the older bridges underwent repairs. Though the city leaders wished to tear it down, the bridge itself became a place for citizens to assemble, in its glaring ugliness, it became a canvas for the expression of its citizens. Today, this stone mass bears the name and imprints of all its citizens, its graffiti strewn walls a messy collection of thoughts and memories and lovers. It is not beautiful, crumbling and temporary, but it is a home to lovers and vagrants and jugglers and thieves.