The salty breeze carries the scent of seaweed from the docks of Choco Mud Town. Missionary Cookie stood atop a wooden crate near a dim lantern, her grey cloak fluttering gently. A small crowd of weary Lower City Cookies lingers nearby, some curious, others just tired from having to deal with her again.

"Fresh dough of the tide and flour, hear the whisper of Providence. The Divines do not forget, even when the Upper City turns its gaze away. Though your hands bear the salt of labor and your roofs leak with storm’s memory, hope rises like dough in the oven."