...The ranger hung her cloak by the hearth after three weeks on the Sword Coast roads. The green had held its depth despite rain and dust. She'd chosen it not for beauty but because it worked. The tailor who dyed it understood. His workshop sat three blocks from the Dock Ward, where every dye batch was tested against the salt spray and the sun. Her next commission would come in green again. It always did.

In a mill town upriver, the weaver's hands moved between dyed bundles. Green for everyday cloth, the kind farmers bought in bulk before spring planting. Their children would grow into green garments, through seasons of field work. It was honest work, the kind that didn't try to look like wealth. The green would fade gradually, turning softer with age, until it matched the earth it was made to traverse.