In Arachosia, the markets of Paviari carry the smell of basil and garlic mingled with the sharper scent of citrus and lavender. Vendors call out in clipped Arachosian, offering olives, dried fennel, and wine from hillside vineyards. The Makthët from the southern counties—prized as quiet companions beyond Arachosia’s borders—are a common sight on the winding roads near Benevenna, moving between patches of golden oatgrass and geranium that crowd the countryside.

Up north, the Ciminian Forest spreads in dark clumps, layered with oak and deep-rooted ferns. Even the air feels thick, tinged with the earthy bite of damp roots, and legend says the Horn of Materamo waits somewhere within its heart. Out of its shadows, Arachosia opens into hillsides where wind snaps at the petals of stock and speedwell, the land touched by Mount Bruciando’s ash whenever it rumbles awake.

In Catalermina, thick vines crawl over narrow archways, sprouting amaryllis and marigold. Here, people slip through shaded stone paths that hold the day’s heat long into the evening. Arachosians don’t rush. They speak low and lean into stories of the Kleadans and Tuvashabad told by traders who drift from town to town, each one adding a little more than was true the last time they came through.