Travel Log Land's End

Land's End, Farenian Far‑East Outpost - At last I have staggered into Land’s End - though calling it a city is generous. Picture a sprawl of weather‑grey timber cottages crouched along a cliffside like broody seabirds, each one crowned with a bell‑tower or a wooden holy symbol. Fog hangs so thick the sun is a dim silver coin behind a curtain of wool; I doubt anyone here knows what a clear sky looks like. Whole patches of cliff‑top turf have been hacked into little plots and stuffed with barley and corn, desperate rows standing shoulder‑to‑shoulder in hopes at least a few ears might ripen before the perpetual damp rots them. Even window boxes brim with wheat stalks, as though the residents have declared war on empty soil itself.   Said residents form a devout "back‑to‑the‑roots" commune - dour folk who pray at dawn, toil till twilight, then pray some more in churches packed closer together than taverns in Perelline. I clattered into the main square still swathed in the salt‑stiff, ink‑splotched tatters I’ve worn since the pirate incident. Imagine my surprise when a knot of elders surrounded me, scandal in their stern eyes. Yet it was not the amount of skin on display that roused their ire; rather, the fact my clothes were torn, frayed, and stained "beyond redemption". Modesty, it seems, is measured here in pristine hems, not coverage.   Without further debate they spirited me into a barnlike meeting hall and produced a fresh ensemble: soft wool in the settlement’s regulation palette of black and granite grey - yet cut so daringly that my shoulders, midriff, and a scandalous amount of thigh remain on show. Apparently the creed is "humble cloth, healthy ventilation". I look, if I’m honest, like a pious scarecrow redesigned by an over‑eager tailor’s apprentice. Still, it is dry, warm, and mercifully squid‑odour‑free. I bowed, murmured thanks, and they set about scrubbing my boots while inviting me to join the evening hymn cycle (six verses minimum, kneeling on sea‑pebbles to build character).   I shall endure the hymns for tonight, record any curious folklore, and keep a keen eye on their ingenious rooftop grain bins (they use chimney heat to stave off mould - clever). Tomorrow, if the fog relents, I’ll seek a cart heading inland. For now, dear journal, relish the moment: your author is finally clean, decently indecent, and entirely bewildered by a town that preaches austerity yet insists one’s knees must greet the Almighty.   -- G. Smallbottom, A wild one on the loose