A thousand years later, none might’ve suspected that the city’s foundations were formed by the hands and tools of Men. Where all had once been a mire, a city now stood tall, divided by three distinct elevations. To the east, the river Guny hosted a dozen ships from Capita, and somewhere out in the thick, white mist, another dozen awaited the all-clear from the shore to approach the busy docks and trade their goods.

From the river, narrow streets of trampled dirt and stone interspaced wooden housing- the inhabitants of which had been wise not to concede their battle against the pressing decay. The houses were, however, small, tight, and short- a better fit for the constant renovations required to maintain the rotting wood.

If one were to continue traversing the streets towards the west, one would arrive at the wide, slab-covered plaza of stalls and booths, where villagers from all across the western lands had come to sell their reptile-skin clothing, mysterious meats, and more than a few live, caged animals.

From the plaza- to the north, a monstrous, sharp hill stood tall above the noisy streets- connected by a long, winding walkway of moss-grown stone and mortar. If one were to traverse the steep connection, one might’ve struggled to imagine that the two tiers of the city were even remotely situated.

Up there, the architecture was not dominated by the same, rotting wood as in the dusty, reeking streets, but were far more elaborate. The architects had, throughout generations, modified their housing- building them taller and broader, but all from the same, red brick as the other. Their shapes were as varied as the lavish gardens surrounding them, but few visitors could claim to enjoy the sight of the bricks contorted into spiraled towers and creative protrusions.

At the midst of the tier, atop a gentler elevation, stood Castle Garrion- the only remnant of its original name; Garrionburgh. It, like the rest of the tier, was construed entirely from the uniform red bricks that the outlying villages had scorched from hummus and gravel. Though less impressive than the castles found in older, more established cities such as Pilta, Zogran, and Marina, few could claim a history as profound as the one leading to its construction.

As opposed to its kindred castles, this one lacked any defensive perimeter. There was no moat, no tall walls or battlements- whyever would such things be needed, when the Barons were only surrounded by their friends? Instead, the defenses were placed to separate the rabble from the fineries, guarding the ramp leading up to the finely architectured partition of the city.

One would not have been faulted for believing that the tall, red wall surrounding the city had been construed to defend its denizens against the wild villagers of old, but in truth, the indigenous humans of the west had never been a threat to the Men of the Empire. The beasts, however, had been a constant threat in the days of old, and thusly, the wall had been raised to keep the stampedes and assaults of reptilian beasts at bay- most of which now resided just outside the grand barrier.

It was on the central gate, by the southwestern end, that a waterlogged cart approached the tall wall. Its miserable passengers were largely too preoccupied with their own suffering to enjoy the two monstrous slabs of carved granite welcoming them through the tall, rotten wooden gates. The two skeletal, granite monstrosities stood in perpetual bows- welcoming yet more travelers to their humble city. The first to react to the smell was, curiously, the tavernkeeper swinging his feet off the edge of the carriage. He promptly turned to look through the open gates, only to immediately shudder as he saw the reddish tinge of the fecal atmosphere in between the innumerable, shouting, dirty swamp dwellers.

Few of the arrival plaza’s inhabitants wore what any save the Blightlander might’ve called clothing. Rather, they wore treated reptilian skin, stretched tightly over famished arms and legs. They were distinctly different from any of the party- their skin was fairer in complexion, but none free from the scars of the hostile environment.

Eleanor was in awe, despite her lingering discomfort. Having lived in Pilta her entire life, she hadn’t thought the biome outside possible, but the people were, to her, the most magnificent of all the wildling land’s bounties. Already from the first revolution of the tired cart’s wheels, she could see that these people were quite different from the ones of Pilta. As opposed to the civilized-and-cultured men and women she had come to know and loathe, the ones at their stalls were open for conversation, yet guarded in their unspoken communication- never letting both their hands stray from the monstrous knives at their hips for more than half-a-second at a time.

In between the slamming of raindrops atop her head, the shouts of the men proclaiming the quality of their wares, and the screeching of the caged animals, she struggled to hear her own mind’s voice warn her of the increasingly more vile stench assaulting her olfactory senses.

The companionship breathed a sigh of relief as the scent of burning lichen dissipated and was instead replaced by the horrid odors of animals and feces. To most, the passing beneath the moss-grown rooftop housing the marketeers’ beasts might’ve been an unpleasant experience. Eleanor, however, had always enjoyed being surrounded by simpler beings such as hounds and horses. She watched in awe as their creaking carriage approached one of the busy stable boys and quickly spun her head to take in all the various sights and smells of the neighing horses.

Kester and Neda continued to sit atop the carriage- scratching their elbows in shame, as Asrael and Barrel argued loudly with the terror-stricken stable-boy. Eleanor, however, had been quick to depart from their cart to wander up and down the cobbled stable to look at the horses from afar. It seemed so long ago that she had been a little girl and had dreamt of a future where she would own a horse of her own- somewhere out in the farmlands. Now that she, arguably, was a party in the ownership of such a being, she had let the wonderful happening pass her by, as if it had been the most natural path of her life.

Her mother had always insisted they not tarry too long when they were outside and so, she had yet to touch a horse with her own, two hands. Her palms ached to touch the animals- to feel those short, pointed, thick hairs against her skin. Some were tied to wooden constructs at irregular intervals throughout the stable, whereas others were stabled inside booths. Locking eyes with a brown, tall mare within the nearest of the stalls, she felt her chest skip a beat as she took in the magnificent scale of the beast.

“I do not care- find somewhere!” Asrael’s harsh shout sounded from behind the young woman’s back- reminding her that the time for wonder and childish joy was over. Turning over her shoulder, she could see that Neda had risen from the cart to join the timid Barrel and the angered Asrael by the terrified stable-boy. The Blightlander stared into the straw-covered stones beneath the feet of her worn boots- squeezing at her elbow with all her might. She had a look of melancholic constipation as if wishing- needing to speak, yet she held her tongue. Barrel wiped his forehead and nervously stuttered: “B-b-but b-boss... M-maybe w-we could t-talk about this for a bit-”

Eleanor winced as she saw Asrael’s green eyes widen. He gritted his teeth and shouted: “I am done explaining my motives to you simpletons! Unless you wish for this companionship to be dismantled, I suggest you begin obeying my commands!” Kester nonchalantly rose from the cart and stretched with a loud yawn as Asrael spoke- further irking the necromancer. The tavernkeeper seemed ready to battle- at least until he saw their glorious leader reach for the pouch in his pocket and pour half the coins into his hand.

Next, he threw the silken, red purse at Barrel’s wide forehead. The driver hurriedly grabbed the wealthy bag before it could slam into the mucky floor. The welling panic suddenly gripped the Blightlander. She raised her eyes to finally look at the necromancer pocketing the substantial wealth but felt her courage drain away before she could speak. Asrael still shot her a heart-rending glare and spoke with a grave authority in his voice: “If my memory serves me correct, it should be less than a day’s travel from here. Depending on the result of my study, it may take a few days before I return. During my absence, you’ve all room for improvement and I expect you to make the best of it. I’ve accepted your uselessness for far too long and I expect to see some improvement when I return... lest we must revisit our plans for our future involvement.”

Though all knew that Asrael’s harsh words were meant for one of his companions, in particular, the one in question could understand little of what had been said... its general meaning was, however, clear to the Blightlander. She hung her head and nodded- unnerving most of her companions with her sudden sheepishness. Asrael folded his hands behind his back and took a long, drawn-in breath before scanning the companionship with disappointment.

“Now, get the Hells out of here. We’ve work to do before we leave and I do not need your toxic simplicity clouding my mind... this disgusting smog is intolerable enough as it is.” Eleanor- eager to comply as always, was the first to snap from her stupor and made her way across the stable floor, only to suffer a strong grip on the back of the lining of her neck.

“Not you. I’ve use for you.”

Neda’s entire being ached with shame and regret. She still struggled to understand what had happened- how Asrael’s mood had shifted so fast and how their relationship had come to such a screeching halt. In one moment, she had nearly had him and in the next, he gave the impression that he detested her- all without any explanation as to what she had done wrong. Next to her, Barrel sniffled and reached for her hand in a comforting gesture, whereas Kester seemed his usual self- more interested in taking in the disgusting sights of the streets they were traversing.

Neda felt the small, round man lead her around a pile of waste on the trampled, uneven dirt in between the houses. Even the wonder of being in a new city with its many new impressions and the unending array of unusual sights paled in comparison to the pain clouding her mind and the two, green eyes burning beyond her eyelids.

Kester felt a rare spark of curiosity as he looked across their new surroundings. For one, the air above the streets hung thick with a reddish tinge that reeked of feces. First, he had dismissed this as a result of the mounds of wastes flung from the bedpans out the windows above, but open realizing that it reeked in between the patches of trampled shit, he had begun to imagine that the air itself was the cause of the disgusting fragrance.

The buildings they oftentimes had to squeeze between were wooden- soaked with water and rotten, save for the few that had been painted in improvised, multi-colored oils. The streets themselves had once, likely hundreds of years ago, been covered in cobblestones, but were now consistent of little more than downtrodden pebbles, dirt and wet compost.

Kester came to a halt as he saw the wide, man-dug river beyond the docks in the distance. In between the many, tightly spaced houses, he looked across a mist-covered pool of water hosting a dozen tall ships. Busy men and women crawled like ants across the wet boxes of goods- hauling them from the loading bays into wide storehouses along the waterfront. For a moment, he might’ve thought he was looking across the docks of Pilta on a rainy, misty day. But as soon as the momentary softening of his heart had arisen, the cold, hard rain washed it away as he remembered that neither Belle nor Bess were with him... instead, he had the two, snot-nosed, miserable associates. He hung his head and shook it slowly back and forth to display his disappointment.

Returning to his stride, he saw a particularly moss-grown sign swing over one of the many hobbles’ doorway- “The cock-and-balls"… He raised a curious eyebrow and scratched his wet scalp. To his left, the small, round man blew his nose and nodded with enough fervor to make several of his chins flap. “Yeh, Kessie... they’s all named like it. Issa tradition ‘round here. The sea-folk ‘re a tough people, they likes it.” Kester chewed on his lower lip. At some point in his life, he might’ve objected to such an obscene name for a place of respite, but as he had learned ever since meeting the necromancer... there were far worse things in this world of their than profanity.

Glancing about, he realized that the taverns and inns were as numerous as the tightly spaced, moss-grown houses. They were far smaller than his own inn, but to make up for the size, it seemed they were astoundingly numerous- all named with impressive profanity. Barrel nudged Neda’s side and proudly pointed to another, swaying sign before asking: “Whussat say, Neddie?”

Neda welcomed the opportunity to think of something other than her misery and strained her eyes to read the impressive cursive lining on either side of the star-like symbol of the sign. “T-t-the... f-e-s-t-e-r-I-n-g... a-s-s-h-o-l-e...” She added the letters together and whispered to herself: “The festering asshole...” Barrel nodded proudly and rubbed her hand.

“Yeh! We’re guin’ tae the cock-in-ass inn if is still ‘round. Lotta’s an ol’ fren, but the blood-boil cuda gotten her... she wus a gudd whore. Ol’ gal cuda sucked the paint off-” Kester’s sharp elbow struck the side of Barrel’s round head before the tavernkeeper whispered: “Barrel... timing.”

The small round man rubbed his cheek and looked up to see that Neda’s bagged eyes were firmly locked on a mound of feces on the dirt. Realizing his folly, he whispered: “Amsorry, Neddie... I knows you must be hurtin’...” She finally inhaled deeply and spoke: “I don’t get it. Everything was going so well, but then you came in and the next time I saw him he was so-…" Kester smirked sideways as she watched her struggle to find any explanation for her dismissal.

Hoping to dispel her sullen mood, he offered: “He got pretty messed up after what happened in that room. There was something messed up about it, but I still think he was way out of line-” Neda jerked her head sideways- slapping Barrel’s scalp with the wet tips of her hair.

“What happened in there?” To his delight, she momentarily broke from her sulking to grimace determinately at him. Hoping to maintain this shift in her mood, he scratched his chin and explained: “I’m not really sure... those people all disappeared into some kinda magical dust. I couldn’t really see what happened to ‘em, but it felt like they burned up, just like that. Whatever it was, he didn’t like it.” He snapped his wet fingers demonstratively.

Neda considered the short summary. Though she knew precious little of magic and even less about disintegrating people, but she knew Asrael better than anyone did. His anger seemed to be tied to his overall mood and if he had seen something that upset him, then surely, that had to be the explanation for his outburst. In which case... she smiled as she made the realization. She raised her shoulders and breathed a sigh of relief before stating: “Then it wasn’t my fault that he got angry at me. I didn’t do anything wrong!”

Kester and Barrel both stopped to blink at her with disbelief. He had obviously been deathly angered with her, but in a feat of her typical bewilderment, it seemed she had already rationalized his fury. She continued- more enthused by the moment: ”Then maybe... he didn’t really mean to get upset with me. He sometimes gets angry and takes it out on other stuff” She snapped her fingers in the air, but before she could continue to rationalize her master’s fury, Kester pinched the bridge of his nose and as calmly as he could, reminded her: “Neda... he called you useless. Then he ignored us all for a day. I don’t think this is just another one of his tantrums-”

The desert-dweller had a way of infecting her compatriots with her moods and the wet, hanging locks on either side of her face worked in tandem with her suddenly ptotic, ground-gazing eyes to shatter the hearts of both her colleagues. Despite enjoying the visage of disasters, Kester dreaded the sight before him and shot the small, round, wet man a glance of confusion. Neither could allow Neda to sprint back to the stables and have her aching heart shattered by the foul-mooded necromancer, but nor did they wish to see her so distraught.

Barrel nervously cleared his throat and ran his wet sleeve over his forehead, before stuttering: “N-Neddie... he’s gunna be gone fer a few days... W-what if we used dis time to practice...” He glanced about the empty, squeezed-in streets before whispering: “yer magic? I’m sure he’d like det.”

To their surprise, she was quick to shake her head and mutter: “It’s useless... I can’t do that- I wouldn’t even know where to begin. How can I stop rain by blowing some air?” Though she appeared as sullen as before, her companions could hear the melancholy loosen from her profound voice. The trio stopped to consider the mystery, though none found any obvious answer to the question.

Kester- no stranger to the use of emotional coping strategies, imagined the proposed training could work... at least as well as the polishing of his now-broken countertop had. He folded his arms and continued to stare across the mist-choked body of water in the distance and with a nod, offered: “Not sure... maybe you can’t, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try, right?”

Neda scratched her chin and followed Kester’s gaze over to the water- a hopeful smile looming at the edges of her lips.

“You really think I can?” She asked. Kester was quick to shake his head and clarify: “Nope. But that don’t mean you shouldn’t try.”

The three wet, miserable adventurers looked out across their new, temporary home and sighed in unison- hoping that Skum would gift them less challenging ventures than Pilta had.