Within the grand city-state of Icthys, one can certainly state shortly after arrival that there are two distinct powers acting over the various districts, garnering the favour of the citizenry for themselves while inspiring hostility and disdain against the opposition. The names of these two factions are known by and large as the unquestionable titans that clash by day's light and struggle by night's shade over the position of majority in the city's eye.

Additionally, after living there and absorbing the local atmosphere for an extended period time, one may learn that these two powers are not in fact standalone forces of political power. Within the districts that they influence, Divinitas and Sanguis find ardent supporters among smaller houses of lineages both old and new, building power gradually as ideals align and fortunes swing among the populace.
In time, with great effort, one may even begin to learn the precise names of each major and minor bloodline as well as their leanings. Further and far more conceited pursuits may be in order if one maintains the constitution to remain in Icthys for it, wishing to to discern historic footprints of loyalties...not to mention whether these loyalties are genuine, or whether they only appear to be so.

Ultimately, the study of these dismal matters only leads to disappointment and paranoia. Ask any of the exceedingly few living political analysts in the city's scholarly societies about these things and they will likely glare at you with irritation, then advise you to leave the city before you become too embroiled like themselves. It's also entirely possible that they'll try to run you through with their sidearm, under the suspicion that you are an assassin sent by any one of the multitude of houses they'd been investigating as of late.

Despite this, news of major political stirrings remain sweet forbidden fruits of knowledge, especially for the unfortunate few who continue to seek where the city's eye gazes. Births of heirs, disputes of succession among matriarchs and patriarchs, and especially deaths of rising political forces; these are things that the populace craves to know of and talk of. Today, they will get their fill.

In the district of Velys, controlled by the venerable house of that same name, a funeral procession is boisterously making its way down the main road, the cobbled expanse that ends at the dividing line between Velys and a wide line of Divinitas-controlled districts. Sombrely, a vanguard of Velys household guards pave the way and usher onlookers away from the path of the procession. Upon the shoulders of six burly butlers sits an ornately decorated casket, richly polished mahogany shimmering with jewelled furnishings and embellishments of precious metals that most certainly had been produced by the unparalleled prowess of the district's most renowned alchemists and gemsmiths. In stark contrast to the rest of the opulent article, humble nails of cold steel are seamlessly embedded along the edges of the casket, as if pronouncing a strict finality of imprisonment for the one resting within.

It's uncommon but understandable for such a well-known and well-regarded house to hold a closed-casket procession, at least for this occasion. The official statement was that the prodigal son of the Master and Mistress Velys had been set upon by an assassin in his sleep, so badly mutilated that his corpse couldn't be afforded the dignity of an open-casket funeral despite the best efforts to put him back together, so to say. Leading the procession as the vanguards continued to drive away onlookers to the sides of the road, not a dry eye could be found among the distinguished heads of the house as Mistress Velys convincingly bawled into the shoulder of the Velys patriarch. It was a very entertaining show for all involved, doubly so for Uric himself.

Spectating his own funeral from the crowd, the Red Hand could hardly stifle his laughter as he followed the procession, hobbling along in the guise of a common huckster. Occasionally, he would even proffer his wares to anyone who would listen, just to tease the crowd's ire, but most of the gawkers were too fixated on the procession passing before them to care beyond an annoyed sideways glance or dismissive wave of the hand.

Pity, he thought to himself. To think I made all these myself too, and I'm ruining my own business.
It was getting a bit hard to keep his hands off his own piping hot meat pies. Better to not think about what he put in them.