Fields, Faith, and First Impressions of Lowstone

On the fourth day, the forest finally begins to thin out. The towering ancient trees give way to lighter thickets, and then to open meadows dotted with groves. The river I’ve been following since my little survival camp has widened into a calm, glittering stream, carrying the morning light like a ribbon of liquid silver.

The change in atmosphere is palpable. The damp, muffled silence of the forest gives way to birdsong, rustling grass, and the distant, almost human rhythm of tools striking earth. The air smells different too — less of moss and decay, more of tilled soil, hay, and smoke from distant hearths. Civilization isn’t just visible; it’s audible and tangible.

And most importantly, I start to see clear signs of human presence: cultivated fields stretching out like patchwork quilts, crude wooden fences, ruts worn deep into the paths by carts.

“We’re almost there, Pururun. I just hope their civilization includes beer and clean beds.”

The slime quivers excitedly. She’s just as eager as I am to finally reach the town of Lowstone.

***

On the way, we cross paths with other travelers for the first time in days. A merchant with a pair of guards gives us a polite nod when he spots my “familiar.” Two farmers trudge home from the fields with tools slung over their shoulders. They give me curious looks — the kind reserved for people who clearly don’t belong — but there’s no hostility in them, only curiosity and maybe a hint of gossip potential.

It’s a family of farmers, though, who give me the most useful information. The father — a broad-shouldered man with a weathered face and hands like gnarled roots — shares his midday meal with me in exchange for a few carefully edited “stories” about slime taming. His wife watches me with polite caution, while two kids peek from behind her skirts, wide-eyed at Pururun’s squishy antics.

“So, you came from the Wildlands, then?” he asks, jerking his chin toward the forest.

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Not many adventurers make it out of that place alive. You must be at least A-rank, maybe even S-rank.”

Adventurers. Ranks. Labels again. In this world, everyone seems to be filed neatly into a category: noble, merchant, peasant, adventurer… God forbid you’re something else.

“I get by,” I reply vaguely. “But honestly, I just arrived. I don’t know your laws, customs, or how society’s structured here. Could you give me a quick rundown?”

His eyebrows shoot up, surprised by the question.

“Well… it’s like everywhere else, isn’t it? Lord Gareth governs this region from his manor in Lowstone. He handles justice, keeps the roads safe, and collects taxes. Below him, you’ve got the town burghers — they run the trade. And then there’s us. We work the land, fish, and hunt.”

Classic feudalism. Lords, vassals, peasants. Great. Being X really dropped me into medieval Europe: Fantasy Edition.

“And what about healthcare?”

He blinks again, like no one’s ever asked that before.

“What kind of question is that, traveler? Everyone goes to the Temple healers. They grant us their divine blessings.” He pauses, then adds with a dry smile. “Assuming you can pay.”

Bingo. Just as the divine bureaucrat told me: healing’s for those with coin; the rest die quietly. Welcome to Fantasy America.

“And if you can’t pay?”

He shrugs, the gesture heavy with centuries of inherited resignation.

“Then you pray for a miracle. If God wills it, you survive. If not… you die. That’s divine will.”

Ah yes, divine will. A handy catch-all excuse for injustice since forever.

“And what about non-believers?”

This time he gives me a sharp, suspicious look.

“You’d better watch your tongue, sir. Everyone believes. We have to. It’s the only way to save our souls and receive the healers’ blessings.”

Great. State atheism: not a thing. This world’s looking more and more like the U.S. All that’s missing is a pumpkin-headed king tweeting nonsense from his throne. And Being X will have successfully crafted an even dumber world than ours.

His wife, who’s been quietly listening, finally speaks in a timid voice:
“Well, there are the apothecaries. Sometimes they treat people without asking for money. But… it’s not exactly orthodox.”

My interest spikes.
“What do you mean?”

“They don’t use divine magic. Just herbs, ointments, strange things. The priests say it’s witchcraft.”

Now that’s interesting. Non-magical healers in a theocracy? Either con artists or proto-scientists. I really want to meet them.

“Are they any good?”

“Our daughter…” she hesitates. “An apothecary saved her life last winter. Terrible fever. The priests said she was cursed. He gave her herbal concoctions, and she recovered.”

“Where can I find these apothecaries?”

“They’re nomads. They keep a low profile. You can find them mostly in the poor districts, especially in the capital. But… be careful. The Temple guards keep a close eye on them.”

Perfect. Persecuted doctors in the name of God. Sounds awfully familiar.

***

By late morning, I continue toward Lowstone with Pururun cheerfully bouncing beside me. She entertains herself by shapeshifting: round, stretched, square… basic geometry practice.

“Hey, Pururun, can you take any shape you want?”

She concentrates, then turns into a hat. Then a flower. Then… a tiny boar? Something vaguely resembling the monster I killed. Complex shapes aren’t her forte yet.

“Okay, but can you mimic textures?”

She turns back into a sphere and hops onto my palm. Her surface ripples — rough like stone, smooth like metal, soft like cloth.

“Incredible. You’re like a gelatinous Swiss Army knife.”

She blushes pink, a little heart floating above her.

***

By noon, I finally spot Lowstone.

The town sprawls in a shallow valley surrounded by hills, bisected by the river I’ve followed for days. Stone-and-wood houses cluster along the slopes, their roofs a patchwork of weathered tiles. A watchtower rises from the center like a crooked finger, and a white-walled manor presides over everything like a smug landlord.

Smoke curls lazily from chimneys; bells ring somewhere in the distance. The air carries the scent of bread and livestock. Civilization. Messy, noisy, smelly… but after days of forest survival, it feels almost comforting.

“Well, Pururun. Looks like we’re finally getting a proper bed and drinkable booze,” I sigh dramatically.

She wiggles joyfully. I readjust my satchel, heavy with boar tusks and dried meat. If this economy works anything like mine, these will fetch a good price.

The road turns to worn cobblestones as we approach the gates. The town’s entrance — Lowstone carved into a worm-eaten sign—is anything but grand. Two guards in rusty armor glance at us, bored, and wave us through.

Just a dusty traveler and his bouncy dessert, entering town.