A good way's north of the mud flats of Donner, where five major roads meet, the barren plains of the eastern Outskirts fade slowly into greener climes. Trees here are thin and craggy, desperate for what little nutrients the soil holds. There's water enough, at least.
The village here is called Five Corners, imaginatively enough, and serves half as a meeting place for the local farmers, half as a way-point for caravans heading north, south, or west, a sliver of a fraction as a place for Outskirters to spend the occasional coin.
The village's only inn is crowded, today, the common room crowded and barely illuminated by the combined efforts of a grand fireplace and thin spring sunlight. A caravan, the guide speaking to a merchant's three daughters; five soldiers in the livery of the Red faction of wizards; pilgrims and locals; a dozen Outskirters, sitting on the far end of the inn, only a few intrepid souls inching closer to the men and women (default threatening, but for now cheerful and friendly despite their band's size).
And, of course, one Steerswoman.