There Is Still Some Corn Left Among the Dead Plants

You carry way less than when leaving. It is three days since you reached the capital. You walk the main road of the black city. To your sides are burnt stalls and collapsed buildings; occasionally, flocks of ravens pick at a congealed puddle of human juice. The ranger stands, "Come, there are steps in the ash" he says.

Around you are burnt huts; you lost your way. Another pair of steps show, then more, leading to a burnt pile of plunks. The ranger enters and blocks a log swung by a man in rugs. More people squeezed in the far corner, hiding meat behind them. "We came to help," the ranger says. "How did you get meat? There aren't living animal in the city." "Eloeen Wainguard," The man said. "Died four days ago. She didn't want us to die".

You are by the gates of the city with two hundred people, some holding blades, facing the unharvested fields.

What did you harvest? A wheat field? Beautiful red apples? Small red berries? A white glassy dew?

Show the people harvesting the crops.