You cross the bridge with growing excitement as the first buildings of She-Town are starting to take shape. She-Town, just as you remember it, beautiful and brutal…no place for the faint-hearted or the dainty-handed.
You know that you’ll be safe here, She-Town belonged to them. And that’s the way it’s been since those first bales of jute docked in 1820. Even further back, to the women weaving linen in the flax mills. Perhaps even further back to the housewives who spun and sold their yarns at markets. There's no sure way of knowing how far back the story of She-Town stretches.
What’s certain is that it is the magic of their hands that built the city. And their hands were like the cloth they spun, coarse but strong. They wore cracks and wounds instead of rings. These hands cradled and comforted like they spun and weaved, with a firm yet gentle touch.
Alas, the magic running through their hands does not come cheap. And they all paid. Songs often fell on deaf ears, smiles often wasted on blind eyes, breaths often cut short by fevered lungs. Their youth fed She-Town, and She-Town bloomed.