Dawn in North Fliedershire was a beauty to behold. The grass still wet with early morning dew, the first rays of the rising sun peeking out over the eastern hills, the cool nip in the air, the smell of the open countryside — Ringman had seen it so often in the years past, but didn't realize until this moment just how much he'd been missing it.
No armor bedecked him this morning, nor any scabbard on his waist; just the loose linen peasant's clothing he'd worn all through his life with Izabella and their two children, which let the light morning breeze caress his skin as if to say "Welcome back." He glanced down at the ring of shooting stars adorning his left hand. It held neither the glamor nor the symbolism of the wedding ring next to it, but its simple presence meant far more to the future of the land he'd made his home: the restriction against taking items with you to Fordinchuarlikomfterrablaxxuuuuuchh'chh'chh-pt had at last been lifted.
— Remainder of story yet to be written —
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