Frontier CityFrontier City

The caravan stops at the eastern gate and you step down into noise. Frontier rises ahead of you in tiers of tiled roofs and chimney smoke, Main Street cutting straight through it toward a chapel spire — grey, gothic, absurdly large for a border town. A guard waves you past without looking up. Someone is already shouting prices at you. Two men pass in armour worth more than the village you left, laughing about something that happened a continent away. It smells of bread, horses and cheap lamp oil. You have a rusted sword, four coppers, and no idea what you’ve walked into.