Noon in Driftwood Village originally welcomed them with the mundane: a breeze carrying the pungent tang of salted fish and the distant, lively chatter of children.
Rianor's caravan arrived after several days of tracing the coastline. The clay road gradually thinned into coarse sand, flanked by green shrubbery on the left and an infinite expanse of sea-blue on the right. The sun was still searing when their carriage crossed the village boundary. There was no official gate—only two weathered wooden posts holding up a faded, carved plaque.
Driftwood. Named after the dead logs that frequently washed onto its shores.
"Quite lively, isn't it?" Roland commented, poking his head out of the carriage window. His eyes scanned the hard-packed dirt road. shirtless fishermen sat by the roadside, mending nets, while barefoot children chased a rattan ball. "At least this place has far more life than the last fishing hamlet we passed."
