64

You walk leisurely on your way down to the Citadel; breathing in the still cool air, enjoying the increasingly beautiful view of the valley below and to one side of you as the rising and lightening sun gently reveals its details. The fertility of the land down there is so renowned that word of it carries all the way over the wooded plateau to the village you left behind. You can just make out the lines marking the fields and separating the property, and just discern a few collections of blobs that, for the moment, could be animals, could be small trees, or even little out-buildings. It’ll be easy to tell soon enough.

It dawns on you the difference between the world you were raised in and the one you are about to venture into. Penniless, and with a purely agrarian skill set, you will hardly find any more of a fitting niche in a dynamically churning and turning city than in some forgotten corner of the countryside. You didn’t dwell on this when you were about to leave home. You didn’t want an excuse to back down without trying. At least you are able-bodied and young. You’ll learn fast and well. Latching onto that thought, you press on.

You arrive at the gate. Even though you’re not approaching fast in the first place, you slow down to take in the sight. The opening is huge, almost as tall the more modest of the trees in the forest. The great wooden doors on hundreds of tiny wheels protrude just short of a foot out of the hollowed wall, held still in the open position by several massive chains. The ground directly under the archway caves inwards in a very shallow V, so that if released, the doors’ weight alone would have them slide shut without assistance. Looking straight up, you see the teeth of the portcullis hanging a little way out of the stone, ready to bite down any moment. Two lightly armoured men stand guard on either side of the opening. You haven’t spoken to them yet, and are barely close enough to make out their faces, but you’re sure in your gut they can sense your awe at the sight before you.

As you approach, one of them steps forward to deal with you, asking to take your name, whereabouts you come from, and to see inside your backpack, all of which you give without fuss. The guards appear surprisingly friendly, compared to the image circulated among the villagers back home, of big sulking brutes seemingly hell-bent on scaring away anyone that approaches them. You’re tempted to ask advice of them, as the aspiring nobody that you are. They must meet impressed and clueless newcomers all the time.

To try striking a conversation and getting tips on starting life in the city, turn to 99. To instead enter and see what the streets spontaneously throw your way, turn to 235.