Currently just a draft - WIP; proceed with caution
The gloomy dark night it was when the traveller first set foot in this village. The locals found the person unusual, not because they had never seen foreigners yet a traveller, but because he was conversing fairly easily with the locals in their language. The speech was crude, but it was true. Traveller was talking with some shopkeepers in the bazaar seen by some locals from afar. The shopkeeper seems to be escorting the traveller to the village chief. This was shocking cause the village chief was a busy man. An archivist, if I may. Chief loves to catalogue stuff and keep records of village expenses, yearly friendly competitions with neighbouring villages in the archipelago, census, write journals, and would never leave an opportunity to write down the knowledge passed down by his ancestors; the poems, the songs, the culture, the mysteries, the epics… A person respected by every other who caught his gaze. Yet this nature causes him to loathe someone who wastes his precious time. They followed the shopkeeper and the traveller. The shopkeeper enters the house, which was customary for the villagers to board each other’s homes; the doors are generally to keep the animals outside. After exchanging words, the chief welcomed the traveller into his humble house. The house was as someone would expect, given the chief’s nature. Soon, the word went out that the chief was hosting a foreign guest; the commotion lined up outside the chief’s house.
The traveller told the chief that he descended from the heaven in the far west; not a god he was but the capital was surely a heaven. A heaven of world’s knowledge. Brought he the exotics of the heaven and a book recording his adventures, his stories and his hobby of collecting knowledge; the travel handbook (which would latter be known as the “rainbow bridge”). The capital thrives on the knowledge. Knowledge is the currency and knowledge is the hierarchy. The epicentre of the world’s knowledge, the magic tower as some fantasy-seeking wizards may say. But this isn’t any fantasy or dream, real as life can be. The bridge between the two halves of the world. He told that there’s a wooden contraption with hands serving liquor to the guests; dubbed it the angel. The traveller was not boasting about the heaven; humble he was, stating that its because of the knowledge, the people that came, the knowledge they brought, its them who are responsible. The capital is merely a tavern for people who enjoy liquor in their foreheads. Traveller expands; a place with no social hierarchy. Welcoming anyone who would like to join in this endeavor of preserving knowledge, pondering over the manuscripts, translating texts, combining ideas… A place where a manuscript, papyrus, book worth more than a week worth of ration for a family of four.