South of the Grass

Bracken Ford is a gravel scar south of the Ashen Grasslands. Shepherd Joss sends walkers down the dry creek bed when wagon ruts still show where water ran. The ford should be empty. Carts still queue.

Ford-warden Hek keeps fees on a board written in mud and temper. Bracken Stein serves what passes for ale and sharper gossip: which carts run north without paying, which names match Merrick's missing gauge payments, where a tarp boat still ties to willow roots under the crossing.

Windmere Hamlet sits between orchard and ford — a crossroads where Vale at the drying shed hears couriers before the square does. Water rights are traded by handshake there because law moved slower than thirst.

The Ferryman's Hide is what Hek will not put on the fee board: ledgers from when the creek ran, crossings logged by moon phase, proof that southern trade never stopped — only went quiet.

South of the grass is where rough's hunger shows without poetry. No shrine symbols. Just carts, fees, and the question of who still profits when the sky refuses.