As dawn broke over the horizon, the quartet packed up their camp and set out towards the City of Windmill. The journey was punctuated by rolling hills and lush valleys, a testament to the beauty of the realm they traversed.
Upon reaching the outskirts of Windmill, they were greeted by a lively scene—a bustling city adorned with colorful banners and windmill decorations. It was the annual Wind Festival, a celebration of the city's connection to the element that defined its existence.
The quartet immersed themselves in the festivities, their fatigue from recent battles melting away in the joyous atmosphere. Orvell marveled at the craftsmanship of wind-powered contraptions, while Minerva and Eileen conversed with locals about the history of the city.
Orvell retreated to their accommodations, where a letter awaited him—a missive from Beatrice, his wife in the distant realm of Grass Mark. The familiar handwriting brought a rush of emotions as he unfolded the parchment, reading her words under the soft glow of a nearby lamp.
In her letter, Beatrice recounted tales of their homeland—the changing seasons, bustling markets, and the familiar faces of their friends. She shared news of their homestead, describing the growth of their crops and the enduring warmth of their shared memories.
Amidst the mundane details of daily life, Beatrice's words carried a deeper longing, a thread of yearning that echoed across the divide between realms. She spoke of her hopes for Orvell's safe return, her unwavering belief in their bond, and the promise of a future reunited under familiar skies.
As Orvell finished reading, a bittersweet smile played upon his lips. The letter was a reminder of the world he left behind, a tether to the life he cherished beyond the realm of Aeolus. Yet, it also kindled a fire within him—a resolve to persevere, fueled by the love and connection that spanned across realms. With the letter in hand, Orvell rejoined his companions.
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As Jakob brought up the topic of archery, Orvell paused, considering the skill he had never quite mastered. He smiled wistfully at the thought Jakob had raised.
"You know, Jakob, I was never quite good with a bow myself," Orvell admitted, recalling past attempts at the weapon. "But who knows? Maybe one day, if I have children of my own, I'll have the chance to teach them."
The idea of passing down knowledge and skills to a new generation stirred a deep sense of longing within Orvell. It reminded him of Beatrice's letter and the dreams they shared of a future.
Amidst the lively festivities of the wind festival, Minerva and Eileen found themselves drawn into the enchantment of the city of windmills. The air was filled with the joyful hum of celebration, and colorful banners fluttered in the breeze.
As the day faded into evening, Minerva and Eileen strolled through the bustling streets hand in hand, their laughter mingling with the music and chatter around them. They sampled treats from the festival stalls, sharing stolen glances and tender smiles.
Under the soft glow of lanterns and the starlit sky, they found a secluded spot near the edge of the city, away from the revelry. Sitting together, Minerva traced patterns on Eileen's hand, her touch gentle and affectionate.
"I'm glad we could experience this together," Minerva said, her voice soft in the evening air.
Eileen turned to her, her eyes reflecting the warmth of the lantern light. "Me too. It's like a dream."
As the festival continued around them, Minerva and Eileen's connection deepened, their hearts entwined amidst the joyful winds of the city of windmills.