The Southlands. The swamp. Conch City.
The judges had to admit that living in the southern swamps made artistic pursuits all but impossible.
Finish an oil painting today, and a day or two later it looked as though someone had splashed water over it, blurring it into a twisted mess of paint.
Work hard to write a piece of literature, and before long the damp had smeared the ink beyond recognition.
Even opera singers and Bards had their voices ravaged by the miasma. They sounded hoarse and rough, as if their throats were lined with grit.
Theater was the only art that could still be performed properly. But the locals had no interest in works that explored humanity and examined ethics. They preferred works that explored sex and examined ethics.
So far, only one person in Conch City had made it through the two-person shortlist—and that was only because Annan had required at least one Contestant from every Commercial Street to make it through.
When Idelia heard, she thought Conch City's Judges were being too strict and swapped them with Judges from other Commercial Streets. It turned out the Judges weren't to blame. Conch City's overall standard simply wasn't high enough.
The environment here was so harsh that even Ratfolk stayed away.
A place with Ratfolk wasn't necessarily fertile, but a place Ratfolk refused to go was bound to be miserable.
They would sooner brave the frozen Northern Frontier than come to the swamp. That said enough about how bad it was.
Only a few hours remained before the second round ended.
The Contestants were making the most of their time... stuffing themselves in the Mess Hall.
A young voice rang through the hall of the Commercial Street staff Dormitory.
Binn stood to one side with his arms folded, watching