This poor place, Black Marsh, has never been better since the day I settled down.
The sticky mud was wrapped in the fishy smell of rotting leaves and penetrated completely into the seams of the shoes. The strong wind brought up all the smelly water in the swamp, and it hurt when it was scraped on the face like a slap in the face. I squatted at the third-floor window of the abandoned alchemy tower, twisting half a piece of hard black bread between my fingertips. My cheeks were sore from chewing it, but my eyes were fixed on the billowing black fog downstairs - the fog in this damn place is so light as if it has been mixed with water during the day, but at night it is so thick that you can pinch shit, which is perfect for hiding my business.
