A steep, bone-dry ravine formed the only path into Farander. Fuchsia and turquoise ribbons wove through the orange-yellow rock that formed the path’s walls. Birds, bats, slimes, and burrowing things clicked and chittered from its holes. Sunlight struggled to make it through to the bottom, coming in patchy from behind the lumpy ridges at the very top. Light peeked from behind crownlike points, and stopped entirely whenever a cloud passed.

The passage felt solemn, somehow. Athalie, Ethel, and Dulcen stayed quiet and watchful as they walked down the gentle, waving slope, letting themselves marvel at the colors and reflect on the safety, here, outside of the dungeon.

Farander Dungeon was, of course, notorious. The emerald-green slimes twinkling in these pockmarked walls were the slightest taste of what was to come, a weak reflection of the monsters down below. The dungeon was entirely comprised of slimes, in a nigh-infinite array. As if nature, considering slimes the weakest of her creatures, set this lair aside for their perfection, and went too far.

The ravine ended—and opened. Its walls leveled off and parted to reveal a town in a valley. The adventurers saw it from a slight incline, a slight angle...saw the whole town in a glance. Adobe houses with shingled roofs, some white and many confetti-colorful, stood in a multitude of stone rings, which interlocked, overlapped, or satdead-center inside of each other. White stone paths looped through them all. It almost had the look of confused crop circles. Meanwhile, there were actual crops laid out in tile-like squares bordering the outer rings.

Farander was edged with mountains, the tallest one capped with snow. And at one mountain’s base, perpetually steaming like a wannabe volcano, was a gaping, and gapingly out-of-place, hole. A cave’s entrance.

It was afternoon now. The streets were far from empty, and the glittering dome of the town’s governing seat was clear to see—in case the place wasn’t already fixed in Athalie and Ethel’s memory.

“Well,” said Dulcen with a yawn, “it’s been an entertaining trip. Nice to share the burden of killing wild things every once in a while.”

“Yeah, it was fine,” said Ethel.

“It was a pleasure getting my arms sore with you, Dulcen,” said Athalie. Thanks to the sparring session they’d had earlier that day, she finally knew what “parrying” meant.

“Oh, likewise. I’m gonna go explore the mountains over there, look over the edge of the dungeon mouth. Then eventually I’ll make it to town hall.”

“Great,” said Ethel, again awkwardly. She decided not to speak to him again for a while.

“We’ll cross paths again, no doubt,” said Athalie. That went so much without saying that it was an empty formality. “See you there, I suppose.”

The group split into two, walking, turning back, waving, walking some more, turning back, waving. For a guy who purported to be a proud loner, Dulcen sure did wave a lot, Ethel noticed.

Anyway, here they were—soon overtaken by the ebb and flow of elven strangers.

Athalie and Ethel were a couple of Big Heroes, and every local would know that on sight. Plus, Farander was only a big town by Darshannan standards, only a shade bigger than Hanalagula. Given all that, one might expect the locals to have given them a warm reception on the streets. Instead, the Faranderans seemed to make a conscious effort to avert eyes and move past. Not hostile, but not warm to strangers either.

Humans and dwarves alike generally considered elves cold, intractable. Even the human-dominated metropolis of Arkadia boasted more hospitality. But to Athalie, Ethel, and anyone who’d spent time in the cities and suburbs of America, it was perfectly familiar. As they entered the crowds, they seemed to fade away.

***

“Name?”

“Athalie DiPomme.”

“ID?”

She handed it over. A wonderful forgery that, she understood, had taken Agi and Felicity long hours to prepare. The ID card was a sturdy piece of cardstock that Athalie normally kept inside the paper pocket of a leather wallet, as was the standard. Impressively, the card was weather-beaten and lightly frayed at two corners.

This superbrief entrance interview was being conducted at the town hall’s front desk by a stern and square-jawed elf named Arnaul. Neck-length blond hair swept neatly behind his ears, which formed a kind of “W” with his widow’s peak. Elves had a lot more variety in hair color than the other three races of man—white, yellow, green, blue, black.

Around Arnaul, the lobby was empty, perfunctory. Surely the actual work was going on in the back rooms, and they could hear a vague hum from the closed doors behind him. Informational pamphlets and ads on a staggered display by the desk gave another weird echo of home. Ethel was flipping through “The Gourmand Adventurer’s Guide to the West.”

Arnaul handed the card back with a forced grin that seemed to strain his entire face. He said, “Welcome.”

Athalie pocketed her ID, then set both hands on her chest and gently bowed. “I am honored to be here, sir,” she said.

“We all use our first names here.”

“I-I apologize.”

“And we’re short on apologies.”

“It is very different where I’m from,” said Athalie attempting to cover any suspicion. “And complicated, for a half-human.”

“It’s alright. I tell the same thing to every human who comes by,” he said, and the smile left his face. Clearly he was disappointed in Athalie. “Now you,” he said, pointing to Ethel with some impatience. “I remember you.”

Of course he would. He wasn’t in charge of coordinating dungeon affairs in former years, but he’d certainly been on that team. Ethel closed her pamphlet.

“Give me your ID and you’re set to stay the night,” said Arnaul. And then he added, as an afterthought, “Welcome.”