A few lamp lighters were going about the village, lighting up the streetlamps of black metal. The dirt path expanded even more till it was cobble. A very low stone wall flanked around a gap—the entryway for the village it seemed.
The wooden post that had grown white mushrooms hung a sign that swayed, "Wensteter Village," Hotaru read. Dusk was upon them as farmers drove small carts with a single steed.
Fields of yet to mature wheat sprouted dark greens going pale. The five walked further in where white squarish buildings with timber frames and thatch roofs resided.
Children covered in dirt, sweat and random grasses and weeds that stuck to their clothes were running, clearly to not get in trouble for missing curfew. With the day coming to an end, mirth and life seemed to spring by the evening.
