Your arrival in Murkholm, in the place of the thirteenth sack of cabbages on the monthly cabbage-delivery cart, is less than auspiscious. An aspiring minicylops, you have already mastered the rudiments of Zamonian culture and set out to make your fortune, acting on a subtle hint from your father delivered by clubbing you over the head, tying you into a sack and tossing you into the nearest wagon.
The meek and agreeable Hackonian, though upset over the loss of his produce, was able to see the matter from your point of view, and even dropped you off on the outskirts of Murkholm with a bundle of cabbages, gratis. The first thing you notice about Murkholm is the fog. It is almost impossible to see more than twenty metres ahead: squat and featureless buildings suddenly ambush you, while the watery eyed, soul-stripping stares of Murkholmers wink on and off suddenly through the haze. By trial and error more than anything else, you reach the centre of the almost deserted town.
The only things the town square has to offer is the sole restaurant, the municipial office, the general goods store, and a noticeboard advertising, at first glance, little else than local trombophone concerts. Murkholm is a bleak city, and the inhabitants of the jellyfog are unsociable at best. You suppose you could try to find a job, visit the outskirts of Murkholm, or take in some culture.
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Topic: Zamonia - SG (Read 1379 times)