The Szlachta, Chmielów’s nobility, ruled from country manors that seemed plucked from the pages of a fairytale—if said fairytale had been co-authored by a carpenter, a tapestry weaver, and someone with an undeniable fondness for floral murals. These manors varied wildly in size and splendor, from stately magnate palaces where every window seemed to wink with imported Salandinian glass, to humble wooden homes whose greatest boast was a stove that managed not to smoke too much on windy days. The wealthiest adorned their walls with Bazartizish rugs and Walvunian tapestries; the poorest made do with a good coat of whitewash and a sprig of sweet violets on the mantle.

Wildlife had the run of Chmielów’s untamed parts. Eagles nested in the crags of Zielonegóry, their cries slicing through the mountain mist. Wolves prowled the forests, their howls as mournful as the old songs sung in village taverns. And boars—great, bristling creatures that seemed to grow an extra tusk just to spite you—were the bane of both farmers and anyone foolish enough to think a picnic in the woods was a good idea.

The people of Chmielów, for their part, were a practical lot, quick to swear at the weather and quicker still to toast the good fortunes of a neighbor. In the capital, Rujawskica, merchants hawked spices sharp enough to make your eyes water and fabrics bright enough to be seen halfway to Walvunia. Meanwhile, in the smaller towns like Dobrpacz, gossip traveled faster than any courier, and a stranger was likely to know whether the baker was feuding with the blacksmith before they even had the chance to introduce themselves.