I step out into the warm air of Lǎnfal. Supposedly, it’s where the Aesids came into existence, if their myths are to be believed. Aesids claim that originally, they were slabs of marble atop a hill in the jungle, and a divine thunderstorm rolled through, striking the slabs with mystic lightning, and cutting the true forms of the Aesids free of their stone prisons. Of course, there are detractors to this belief. But, Lǎnfal is a holy city for these people, and the primary population center of their kind.

“Outsider.” I’m stirred from my thoughts. “Outsider, look at me.” An Aesid stands before me. I look at the individual for a short moment, up and down. Long, blond hair, an angular face, a horizontal scar draped over their nose beneath their pale blue eyes. He stands about the same height as me, but his stature places his eyes above my own, giving him the impression of looking down at me. “Outsider.” He says again.

“Outsider, ‘spose that’s me?” I ask the man.

“Yes, you are an outsider.” I stare at him, now. He stares back.

“And that means, for me…?” He stays silent. “What’s it mean, pal?” He shakes his head and walks away. Weird.

I continue to walk about the city. Even if the people themselves aren’t carved of marble like they claim, the city certainly is. Occasional grey and black streaks paint the white stone which comprises the buildings that stand bright in the thick of the green jungle around us. The alabaster skin of the Aesids walking about the streets in their brown robes makes little contrast with the stark coloration of the marble.

I find myself trying to identify the roles of those around me. It’s usually quite simple. The soldiers or guards brandish lances on their backs, blades at their hilts, sometimes crossbows or bows at their waists. They wear leather, wooden, or metal guards strapped over their forearms and chests, bound to them with hide strappings around their backs and wrists. These armors are worn over their robes, typically.

The farmers, they’ll have shorter robes, cutting off around the upper thigh instead of above the knee, but they also wear hoods, and, seeing as they cultivate under the sun, it makes sense. They don’t farm in plots of land set aside for it, they grow bushes to line the roads, along the marble housing and other constructions which they’ve cut from stone. Ornate patterns line the doorways and windows, which themselves have wooden lattices as screens to let the humid air in. The air. It’s heavy, dense. Feels like I’m breathing in an entire swamp. We’re not far from the Eastern Wetlands, since we’re in Lǎnfal. It makes sense. Rivers flow out through the Grey Forest into the seas, but they loosen the soil, and plants spring up.

Farmers, soldiers. The other roles aren’t nearly as distinguished. The people who I’ve found to be clerks, shopkeeps, mages, the only thing that sets them aside is really the purple lining which adorns the brown robes. The children, the few ones that are around, anyways, wear smaller brown robes in the same fashion as the adults do. They run in the streets, tagging one another, and playing basic games.

Though, one thing strikes me about these old streets. No vagrants walk about, nobody in torn garments, with dirt on their faces. No diseased, no crippled veterans of the fighting. The Aesids keep their streets clean, I suppose. Maybe they just kill their poor, maybe they don’t live here, maybe they don’t exist.

Veterans… Captain Shaddick is dead. My friends, probably, too. We expected it, but I had no chance to mourn. I was so focused on staying alive. Shit…

I look around where I am. The center of the settlement, with markets and people walking around. The mood isn’t elated, not happy. It’s grim. Farmers sell their wares, not with smiles on their faces, but stone-faced and quiet. War and its horrors have reached even here, it seems.

Maybe it’s just who I am, but I haven’t thought about the deal too much. I’ll join the Ring, do what Lucien wanted me to. I owe him my life. No, I’ve been thinking more about what’s gone. The Silvered Coast must have fallen, now. Noble families either fled or surrendered, typically. The Amar scion, Samir, got mentioned, they said he was fighting. Maybe he’s not alone in that struggle.

“Outsider.” I get awoken from my own thoughts. “Care for a slice?” Ølena stands before me, with a porcelain plate in her hand, two orange slices of some kind of pastry laying on it.

“I have a name, you know.” I say, though, at this point, maybe I should shed it.

“I’m well aware.” She replies, coolly.

“What is it?”

“Pumpkin.” She floats the plate a bit more closely towards me. I silently take a slice of the pastry, and take a bite. It’s moist, and the pumpkin flavor is notable.

“Thanks.”

“I sense you’ve made a decision regarding our offer.”

“I have.” She looks me in the eyes now, for what feels like the first time. They’re glazed over with wetness, and a stark blue that contrasts with her skin, which, in turn, matches the plate that the pumpkin pastry sits upon. “I’ll do it.” That face, which has been stone cold since I first noticed it, quiet, pensive. A hint of a smile shows through.