"Nobility and tribespeople, like cocoa trees and grass seedlings..."
The stream winds, flowing beside the harvested rice fields. In the distance, the red cedars of West Mountain stand tall, reaching into the clouds.
Old Militia Chiwaco sits on the field ridge, gazing at the golden mountains, the cedar trees atop the peaks, and the rice fields at his feet for a long time without speaking. He is someone who has suffered, having endured loss and hardship, painstakingly gathering his family back together. He is also someone who has seen much, from Southern Sky to Northern Sea, from a fallen kingdom to a newly established one.
Perhaps, in the entire West Mountain Port, whether immigrants of the kingdom or the local Miwock tribe, only he can understand Old Shaman Cedar. And only Shaman Cedar can speak words that reach his heart.
