Set in the peaks of a cloud laced scene there houses hang, laid out as if they put no strain on the ground beneath. They did not clear the ground, it receded before them. Made of thin light wood, and filled with paper walls and paper doors these shelters do not sway. There weapons too, curved slits of wood, there arrows firm shoots of the same. Rival all weapons conceived in the hearts, in the minds of men. The city is to be seen as one built of hard hard irons, and mists that can not hold. The picture of the people here is hard to show. Regarded as fools, but feared they heed there lives to inked words, on paper too. Words like discipline, patience, and self denial. These are words to stand against most others. Used and never practiced so rarely seen as verbs in the places where "men" walk. They, the people here are small and pale. Dark hair and dark eyes that look out through narrow lids. This is why there fools, even there power comes from paper, comes from words. Frail homes, frail weapons, frail people, frail words on which there lives are built. Here will be the last time there called by frail, for this paper place is strong.