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Approaching Rondel by air…
The hot summer’s air is buoyant beneath your wings, as the village of Rondel spreads out below you, nestled in the rolling low hills of Narrowneck. Cultivated fields and neat orchards of low trees surround the village, though patches of wild woodland and the occasional bare hilltop can be seen some miles distant - one bares a crumbling tower, another, an ancient circle of stones. A trail of multicolored, luminescent smoke rises from one such wooded patch not far from the village, but the townsponies below seem unconcerned. One earthpony farmer, working his fields, glances up and waves to you, a broad smile of welcome upon his weathered face. Most of the cottages are small, of wood or wattle-and-daub construction, clustered closely together about small but well-tended gardens. The aspirational spire of the Church of the Sun, the sprawling stonework of a manse you presume to be the village Alderpony’s, the rough-edged newness of a watermill, and the warmly inviting solidity of an inn calling itself the Fallen Apple are the only buildings of note. The angle of the sun grows increasingly low in the sky, and the air will soon take on the night’s chill…
Approaching Rondel by river (likely from Canterlot)...
There’s a welcome cool breeze over the river Rondel, promising a chill night even at the height of summer, as the village of Rondel hoves into view. A waterwheel turns industriously in the current, though the churned earth of recent construction surrounds its millhouse. As the rowboat pulls up to the small jetty, only the aspirational spire of St Charlyle’s can be seen. Somewhere in the distance, a whisp of luminescent smoke can be seen against the darkening eastern sky. An earthpony filly waves to you from the waterside, and blows a tune on a reed-whistle - till her brother dumps a frog down the back of her neck and flees, cackling, with her in hot vengeful pursuit.
“Epic Spin’s of the Fallen Apple hosts a clean bedroom, and he serves a fine cider. Cure what ail’s yer, it will,” the weathered earthpony ferrymare says, and coughs politely, hoof outstretched. “It’s that way,” she nods, as you drop a coin into it, which disappears with alacrity.
Approaching Rondel ahoof
The turnipfields alternate with rich orchards as you trot along the road towards Rondel. In the distance, further from the scattered hamlets and gradually-nearing village, bare hilltops and patches of wild woodland can be seen. A travelling unicorn trader trots past you in the other direction, trailing a light wagon of sundries. “Stopping in Rondel?” He asks. “Name’s Fast Buck,” he smiles. “Epic Spin makes the finest cider in all Valorein,” he boasts, though from his accent, you surmise he’s been no more than twenty miles from the village in his life - and that most villagers consider him well-travelled. He nods towards a curling whisp of luminescent smoke rising from a patch of woodland not far from the village. “Apothecary Webb’s mixing up her zebran brews tonight,” he comments. “Her cures’ll cure any ailment,” he smiles, “though they do have a tendency to explode now and again.”