The twilight in Daguge brought a gritty tranquility.
The dry hot wind swept over this town, which had recently changed hands, carrying the faint scent of livestock dung and spices left after the market dispersed. It blew past the mottled earth-colored walls and the flags of the "Musician" defense on the buildings.
The town center, originally the residence of the local 1515 leader, had now become Song Heping's temporary command center.
The palm trees in the yard cast long shadows, and under the tree, on a makeshift military table, was a set of purple clay teaware distinctly out of place in the surroundings.
Song Heping, dressed only in camouflage gear, was slouched in an old-looking rattan chair, squinting as he watched the sunset gradually swallowed by the earth.
In stark contrast to the ear-splitting artillery and the chaos of frantic distress signals on the radio network on Ozham's side, it was extraordinarily quiet here, as if time had slowed tenfold.
