“Too much of the world was inhospitable, intractable ... Why prove that it had ever once been green?” - Margaret Drabble

The cozy town is an island in the sea of lazy green hills and farms. The buildings are petite and inviting - like little life-rafts offering comfort to the locals.

From this hill I can see the whole town. At first glance it looks like there are about twenty houses all made of a foundation of stones with walls of wood. The biggest, probably a town hall, is just off centre and has a plaque proudly declaring the town's name: Clearview-Riversmeet. Cylindrical storage units are scattered throughout the town: each house having at least two of its own.

The townspeople go about their business lazily, taking care to perform every action slowly.

An old woman, back bent from years of hard work, hangs monotone grey clothes on a line. Dressed in the same murky grey, she slowly unwinds herself after picking up the clothes in the basket at her feet. As she reaches up to the line, folding the clothes over it and putting the washing pegs in place, her arthritic joints hitch with every movement.

Also dressed in grey, a farmer with wisps of white hair draws a small empty cart behind him. Although not moving with as much difficulty as the woman hanging clothes, one can easily see that his loose clothes once fit a stronger, more youthful man.

In the middle of the road a group of five small boys kick a faded red ball, hurrying out of the way as the farmer passes through with his cart. Once he is out of the way, their lively game continues. Barely a moment later one of them slips and falls. His friends rush to him like a swarm of bees to see how badly he has been wounded.

A congregation of farmers animatedly using their hands to show their point of view debate at one of the storage units. From here I can't follow their entire conversation, but their hand gestures tell me that they are upset about the level of food stored.

With a baby on her hip, a young woman shouts down the street. One of the boys playing with the red ball jerks his head up as he hears her before saying something to his friends and rushing to his mother's side.

Two older women sitting on barrels, gossip heavily with dramatic gestures and facial expressions before exploding in a fit of laughter.

I fold my legs in, taking my seat on the lush grass on the hill. Pulling a small map from my pocket, I gently unfold it before studying it.

The town's name was hung proudly on the hall. What was the name again?

Clearview-Riversmeet.

Searching for the name on my map, I quickly find it on the border of ArBrae.

I don’t know why I chose to come to this town. There are many other small towns scattered along the forest border, but my feet brought me to this one. As time passes I will probably regret coming this close to the forest, but for now hiding where Mother least expects is should be a good place.

Stuffing my map back into my pocket, I make my descent to the town.

I soon meet the farmer drawing his carriage. His skin is wrinkled and papery with a collection of old man’s beauty spots on it.

“Good afternoon, sir,”

He acknowledges my greeting with a wary nod.

“Can I help you with the cart?”

Either deaf or wilfully ignoring me, my offer of help is rejected with silence as the wheels of his cart creak on the road.

With their rosy cheeks and glossy hair, the children playing look healthier than those in the city.

“Good afternoon,” I try with a friendly smile as I approach them.

Three pairs of eyes widened in astonishment stare me down as if they’ve never seen another human in their lives.

Walking on, the lively chatter of the two old women cease the moment they see me.

“Good day.”

They answer me with reluctant nods.

“I hope you are in good health,” I venture.

Without answering my greeting, they return to their conversation - this time hushed and inaudible.

Knowing how I will be received, I still proceed to the first door. My knuckle gives a gentle knock on the door. The villager, not yet aware of the stranger in their midst, opens the door with an enthusiastic smile. Upon seeing me, the door immediately closes without allowing me even a greeting.

The second door greets me in a similar way and the third remains closed. After knocking on two more inhospitable doors, I sit down on the last one's steps. The least they can do if they are refusing to even hear me out, is tolerate me sitting in front of the house. The owner doesn't shoo me away, but I can feel them glaring from the now curtained windows.

After being rejected at Raven's Peak, I decided that I would try my best not to need anyone's hospitality. However, this town is too small to have an inn and I don't want to spend another night on the side of the road barely sleeping and gripping my dagger. I need a proper night’s rest and the luxury of time to decide where I will go from here onwards. 

The thought of travelling even deeper into Ligtland has crossed my mind a few times. Up to now I have stayed relatively close to the forest - hoping perhaps to somehow find a way to go back. The east of Ardam towards Alesam will require a long journey with a traveling company, but it might be worth it. Alesam itself is out of the question: there are too many non-humans who would recognise me in an instant.

A shadow looms up in front of me as my head is buried in my hands.

“They do not take kindly to outsiders. Today I have lived here for three years and they still glare at me.”

His hair - redder than blood - is the first thing I notice when looking up. While it has been shaved very short at the sides, the middle crop of his hair is longer. A kinky wave rolls to his temple. His stubble, the colour of dried blood, requires either a shave or a beard to be grown. A strong, determined jaw hides behind it. Without any freckles, his skin is unblemished and healthy.

Time slows down as his eyes - the green of new leaves, smiling and inviting - holds my gaze. With great reluctance I break away my eyes to study the rest of him.

Dressed in a caramel-coloured shirt with ragged edges, his tanned arms rest against his side with palms toward me. Although he is dressed the part, he doesn't look like the farmers I've encountered before. He has this determined, proud gaze in his eyes that is different to the submissive, averting looks of the farmers and their wives.

His brown leather boots, worn from traveling, reveals that he is a wanderer - just like me. Even though he might live here, this isn't his home. His home is somewhere very far from here.

He offers me a strong hand to assist when I move to stand up. When I hesitate with muy outstretched hand, his engulfs mine making a strange blush creep up my face.

Still towering over me even when I am standing, he continues with a lop-sided grin. “I can offer you accommodation for tonight. I can also offer you food for a few days. Are you planning on staying for long?”

 “Thank you. I do not know yet, but I definitely won't stay longer than a week. I am just passing through Clearview-Riversmeet.”

His green eyes study me intently, trying to decide what kind of a person I am.

With my all-black attire, dirty face and shoulder-high sweaty strands of hair, I probably look like a delinquent to him. My clothes, other than being practical, also lets people assume I am a man - because women will never dress like this. Reflexively I smooth my shoulder-length hair out over my ears, feeling the pointy tips as I do.

Realising that I need to reassure him to secure food and bed for the night, I make an offer: “Thank you for your kindness. I cannot repay you, but I can however do some odd jobs for you in the while I am here.”

“I do need some help in the field, but for today I am honoured to have a guest under my roof. You are the first guest I am harbouring.” His eyes seem to twinkle in excitement.

I extend my hand to shake on it. “Thank you,” I say when his strong grip takes my hand.

“My farm is just outside the town, so you can follow me.”

He hasn’t introduced himself yet and I’m not going to be the one who does it first.

Even though there is a road leading into the town, my host heads into the sea of green hills.

A heavy straw basket is resting on his back. With his back slightly bent under the load, his squared shoulders carry the weight proudly. His thumbs are tucked into the straps over his shoulders, twiddling with the straps.

We carry on making our way through the grass on a lesser path. At times when it disappears from view, the red-haired stranger's sure footing leads me. Both of us are hesitant to strike up a conversation, but the sounds of chirping birds and rustling grass makes the silence amiable.

The clouds that were so familiar in the sky of the city have been replaced by an endless blue sky. The sun, warm and familiar, lazily smiles down on us.

“My farm starts here,” he announces as we go up a slight hill.

Although no clear boundaries are visible, there are some signs validating his claims. As we walk up, the tall grass gives way to trimmed pasture revealing multiple small crops are scattered on the hillside.

We encounter a few chickens pecking at the dirt, hastily hurrying towards my host as he approaches. A hand of grain strewn on the ground rewards their happy greeting. Their excited chatter continues as we head toward the small stone cottage.