Work Text:
Qadmiel had ranged further than anyone alive. He journeyed among the savage Austvagoy in the north, traversed the Cozovod steppes to the east, lived with the southern folk, the Gwalc and the Shkodres, drunk fermented goat's milk with the Omi in the Oraefa mountains, ventured across the western Ocean of Sorrow and returned, though not to tell of what he found there.
And yet he always found himself returning to Diablotin. The city drew him to itself like a bee to a flower, or a fly to a corpse. Four centuries, and he was still struggling to understand its lure.