The city of the Lothians crouched against its river like a beggar warming his hands at a poor fire.
High Lord Dirar stood at the crest of the last hill south of the humans' capital city and tried, with the generosity befitting a guest, to be impressed by what he saw.
The walls were honest grey stone, and they looked sturdy enough to last another generation or two; he would grant them that much at least. The roofs beyond the walls were a hodgepodge of simple thatching and sturdier slate, all of them huddled close and exhaling woodsmoke from a thousand crooked chimneys until the whole valley smelled like a campfire that had been rained on.
