”So Mirabel, have you ever been to Rowanill before?” Erika asks and glances over to Mirabel. “No, never. I have to say I’m quite excited!” Mirabel responds gleefully. “Well, you’re in luck then as the caravan market just so happens to be in the town today!” Erika responds with a smile. “Lots of travelers come here often?” Mirabel asks. Erika lowers her gaze, and her voice shifts into a subtle but still noticeable solemn tone: “Well, not as many as I heard used to. The thick woods make travel difficult and risky for large caravans. But I think many still avoid the place because of its, well, history.” The two women approach the town gates. Beautifully crafted rich woodwork embellishes the stone structures. Bright red trims with splashes of white paint frame the gate and the 10-meter stone watchtower. But despite the quality of the tower, its brother lies crumbled, barely holding the gate together and it too only barely held together by makeshift scaffolding. Two guards stand under the gate in colors similar to the trimmed gate bridge and inside the gates, a stableboy is harnessing a three horned kaurin stallion ready for travel. There is a text box which reads: “At the time I didn’t know of the events that took place in Rowanill during the Avelonian civil war, though it was clear from the first glance that even decades later the place hadn’t fully let go of that night.”

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