Submission (#3933) Approved

Come one, come all, to the finest city in the land. Come one, come all, adventure in the most remote places of the golden woods and the bronze-brown mountains for a chance at changing your magic. Come one, come all, to the land of magic’s study and harvest and the great, splendid experience of the only region where you can find anyone at all whose help you need, and trust they won’t give you a knife in the back as quick as a by-your-leave.

After all, Silveil’s a silver city, but Il’durahn is the golden city of magic, and there’s no need to be anywhere else in Bellmoril, least of all the southwest beaches where no one but the locals go. He runs, after all, runs with the goods he was asked to harvest, runs with the mana crystals he doesn’t know he was stealing from the ones who cultivate it, year on year, as the miasmic tide draws near. The leaves on the forest floor flutter out of his way, and hide his path. No one who saw him arrive sees him leave. No one who sees him leave can tell you what’s in his saddlebags, as he dives in and out of the golden undergrowth and vanishes.

Pink doesn’t blend in with gold and blue so pale it’s almost white stands out against the grey-white of the trees. But he runs back to the spun-brass eldertree and the city of gold, and there are those who remark upon his travels. They do not know this stranger, know only the shadow that chases him, flashing across the puddles of the previous night’s rain. But they remember that he was here, of what he holds, of what he stole. They will not forget. After all, there’s no need to be anywhere else in Bellmoril.

Least of all the southwest beaches where no one but the locals go.