Braxton was a typical small, sleepy town located in a godforsaken part of a prosperous country. It was a home to all sorts of strange individuals as well as some entirely regular folks. They all mingled on the main market square, stopping by a century old wishing well to drop a coin or two out of habit mostly, as no one local believed in superstitions and omens. But it was good for the occasional tourist.
In the early twentieth century Braxton was voted as the most boring and dreary place in this part of a country. The dwellers of Braxton couldn’t agree more.
However you would be mistaken if you thought that there was completely nothing to see in this hollow shell of a town.
For starters the town was circled by a tight ring of various kinds of trees and bushes. The wild paths were often crossed by brave animals and even braver hunters with rifles.
On the most south side of Braxton one could find pleasantly small lake with nenuphars and water lilies. It is a place frequented by all – people and animals.
When you entered the town from the north, you were welcomed by a towering shadow of the small basilica consecrated to Saint Mary. The silver dome of the basilica towered above the town as the highest peak in Braxton. The white walls shone from a far, guiding the weary traveler home.