The city of Belath can only be found by those who do not seek it. Riding in through the northern gates, weary travellers can be heard to exclaim: “Ah, this cannot be the place. The streets are too cramped,” or “The squares are too busy,” or “The sunset is too dull.” And always “I will keep searching tomorrow,” or “Perhaps it is further along the coast,” or “Maybe I misread the map?” In cafes on cobbled streets, old men tell stories of Belath – stories of a place that is clearly not the place where they sit. The building of the old cartographer’s guild lays abandoned, more out of awkwardness than anything else. Even the mayor is not confident enough to write the name on the sign outside city hall. And yet, to the wanderer on the way through to somewhere or anywhere, the streets are cozy and winding and the squares are exciting and lively and the sunset is magnificent.