The melancholy consequence of mortal life is not meant for us to see! But at least you have grown used to the sound of it. Indeed, the low murmur of the souls has even begun to lull you into sleep, as it does tonight.
After some weeks with only the dead for company, you begin to notice signs of mortal life in the distance: not the Nomad City itself, but an outpost of some sort, marked by a conspicuous patch of verdure. Horses and cattle graze in the tall grass, while nomads on horseback stand guard.
These guards wear leather, bleached gray from its time in the sun. It billows like fabric. They call out as you approach, alerting each other to your presence, "Citizen of Vhyr!" The words are repeated to the riders on the other hills, like a taunt: "Citizen of Vhyr!" As a begrudging occupant of that city, you have always tried your best to dress in a manner less opulent than that of your peers—but here in the Broken Hills, it seems that even the chain that glints around your neck betrays you as a foreigner.
You climb the slope nearest to you, and one rider greets you with a smirk. "Greetings, visitor! What a wonder that you have traveled all the way from your city without the aid of a road." The other guards laugh among themselves. "And what is your business here?"