### James II > *"Before he had traveled here, he had wondered at the grandeur of this place. Even today, it captivated his curiosity, and lighted his body with anticipation: a barren wasteland, rich with industry, and teeming with local and imported life alike."* As James imagined himself nearing his destination, the hostel made itself known: appearing from the sand as though it had been summoned. Its entrance sat on the side of what looked to be a tiny dune -- budding off of a larger one, from which the building's exterior rose into the sky. It was old, and not in the way that a weathered structure comes across as impressive for its strength. No, the building was decidedly not impressive. It looked to be two stories high but was much wider along the dune than it was tall. Nestled firmly in the surrounding sand, the dune dwarfed the hostel to the point that James worried it may be swallowed if there were to be a sandstorm. James had simply overlooked the structure on his approach: a building that blended comfortably into the wild sands -- made almost entirely of Adobe mud. Not baked brick, but built insead from thick-set slabs of earth, clad with what looked to be a fishing net of grass fibers. Outer Aramnal was known to lack large vegetation, and so it should have been expected for wood cladding to not be featured in their architecture. Even still, the thing looked nothing like what James would have thought when his employer said that he would be covering the cost of his accommodations. "A fishing net! To think..." James trailed off. Responding aloud to his thoughts was a habit that he still needed to kick, but what could they fish for so far outside of the city center? Sand fleas came to mind, but not much else. He cracked a smile, thinking himself clever. Prying open a set of doors, James scuttled in and quickly shut and latched them behind. In this small chamber, he disrobed and adorned the clothing worn within private spaces in Aramnal. He completed the change by loosening the strings on his boots and opting for his own bare feet -- as was customary. Locking his things in one of the provided cupboards, he made his way through another set of doors, and down a ladder. Turning back around, he stopped to take in the lobby of the hostel where he would stay the night. Set underground to mitigate the otherwise intolerable heat, the lobby was a cold blessing compared to the thick sand above. He marveled at the entry-room's floor: a mosaic of large hand-hewn stones, set deep into the ground. Their sides were rough and each was jointed with loose gravel to meet comfortably with its neighbor. Their top faces were worn smooth from the passage of so many pairs of feet, and comfortably cool to the touch. Across the stone floor stood his innkeeper: a slender woman, a head or so shorter than James. Her loose-fitted robe made him chuckle. It still seemed odd to him how similarly the men and women in Aramnal dressed. Outside -- under the hot sun -- he could understand the culture's lean toward necessity rather than eccentricity. Inside, however, the temperature was tolerable, if not comfortable. James being more used to comfort than conformity led him to have a mild irritation with Aramnal’s traditions pervading even into the intimacy of a family home. "Welcome in! How can I help you get settled?" The innkeeper beamed. "I believe my room is on the next floor up. I am not quite sure of the room number." James responded, abashed. "The name on the account should be my own. James Rafording." He continued. The kind innkeeper led him up a sturdy ladder. James found himself returned to ground level. He noticed now that his feet made their home in a firm mud, instead of on stones like those below. The intricate latticework ceiling in the entryway of the building should have been an indicator that there would not be stonework on this floor -- otherwise, the structure would not hold. “If there is nothing else that I can assist you with, I will be returning downstairs.” Her voice was charming, but its specific phrasing was dry and rehearsed. “No. Nothing else, thank you.” James dismissed her. Though a part of him had enjoyed her company, he knew better than to muddy the shores he was meant to drink from. He was careful when reminding himself to be cautious to do so using the language that locals would be most familiar with. “Unsurprising, that even their idioms lack refinement.” He muttered to himself about the absurdity of muddy shores in a sandy desert. James ran his mind back and forth, and his feet followed suit, leaving gentle footprints in the cool mud. Eventually, his pacing lost its allure, and he was driven to the long floor-to-ceiling slit in the outer wall of his room. As the window exposed the fortification of the hostel's outer structure, James examined the meter of compacted earth that defended them, and the view of the sprawling city that it exposed. From his perch, he internalized Outer Aramnal's indescribable charm. It carried the spirit of an ancient city, a spirit that had long been exorcised from the rest of this place. Sheltered and hidden behind its surrounding wall, Inner Aramnal was a different beast entirely. Before he had traveled here, he had wondered at the grandeur of this place. Even today, it captivated his curiosity, and lighted his body with anticipation: a barren wasteland, rich with industry, and teeming with local and imported life alike. Letting in a sharp breath, James locked eyes with the sand. He stood and stared as gusts of wind rolled each dune slowly. He traced where the sand met up with the sky, touching its gentle curves in his mind, and following it along the horizon to the east and west -- where it continued unadulterated. The only respite from the sand was in his outer periphery, where either side of the narrow window slit brought his mind back to the hostel. With that glance, the imagined world of his adolescence had been realized. He found himself coming to terms with finally being in Outer-Aramanal, and with his journey only just beginning. --- *As part of a serialized novella entitled: "Gust".*