Young aristocrats touring the lands near Broodja are urged to see the great bridge of the city. There is a place at the edge of the city where the seaport steps down to the water and gives you a fair glimpse of the blue and gold bridge, as well as the mountains behind. And this is the sketch that young men make time and again to show their counterparts at home.
Though the great bridge is beautiful indeed, the inhabitants of Broodja have come to loathe it- for travelers do not deign to sketch the spire, of which the townsmen are proud, or the statues of the gods or the hanging gardens at the sea. Each sketch remains a pithy postcard, a reduction of the city into a single moment and a single angle, without depth or discovery.
It is sad to see cities such as Broodja truncated in the memories of young men. Eventually there will only be the trinket sellers and the bridge, its crumbling pillars caked with cheap stucco and gold leaf, but still loved and sought after by wandering, hopeful minds.