Nestled upon Flember Island’s southern most mountain, like a beacon of light in the darkness, was the small village of Eden. And whilst Eden might have looked scary from the outside – being, as it was, concealed behind a ten-metre-high wall of sharpened tree trunks – on the inside flember, the energy of life, thrived. Forests bustled, meadows swayed, ponds glistened. Waterfalls crashed. Rivers trickled.
Villagers ambled about in the morning sunshine.
Our story starts here, in Eden, but away from the orange and blue rooftops of the streets. Down a winding path, across a crumbling stone bridge, in a clearing before Spindletree Forest.
Where a small house was to be found.