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Tavon
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Baraka and I step into a world with grass that shines blue and rolls across an earth that’s aglow beneath the weight of a red sun and skies that gleam purple and black. On the horizon, there sits a village of brick houses painted white and huts colored a rustic brown amidst cobblestone crossroads which run through the town and divide it into four squares of living quarters. At its center is a great well next to a tall oak, and, in the far north, there sits a town hall which stands above the rest of the village with a shingled, blue roof. At the southern entrance, there is a stone-brick wall with a wooden gate at its center, and, as that gate begins to open up, a wall of holographic text appears above the southern wall.
I stand next to Baraka, who’s dressed in plated, cr
