A little Rp to fill the intermezzo I felt was sneaking in.
Seasonal Fair
Walking among the battle worn rock that is the fortress hold of Westmoor, a young man with eyes resembling the deepest of shades of eau de Nil strolls about as the great walls envelop him in shadow. Locals from all around the small city were piling into the place. Nemean couldn't help himself gawking. Westmoor certainly wasn't Oligarch but these people. They packed themselves into ever nook and cranny. Peddling their wares and clogging up the already cramped, winding roads.
Apparently there was a fair of sorts. Making sure he didn't bump into anyone the young noble darted between the stalls both permanent and makeshift. Fleece everywhere. Seasonal goods and a ton of vegetables. It must've been a good harvest. He thought to himself.
So Nemean took in the sights of Westmoor. A lonesome, tiny city on the great plains now called Greater Eponllyn.
