Saringallow

evening

Thilo was right about this city. Everywhere I go, it’s cold shoulders and narrowed eyes. Service delivered like an obligation, not a welcome. When I paid for my room, the innkeeper looked at me like I had no right to be here. What’s the point of running an inn if you resent the people who keep it standing?

Any fantasies I had about finding an inn or tavern to perform have been quietly strangled. No one wants an outsider. I don’t get it. I look around, and trade is everywhere–there are boats along the river, markets and shops with goods from beyond Isger, and of course our own caravan which brought cargo in addition to travelers. I must have missed the sign that says, “We want your money. We just don’t want you.”

But, Nine Hells, it’s more than even that. These people barely seem to want each other. I overheard two elderly men in the common room, and one of them actually said, “True friends aren’t too friendly”. Apparently, that’s an aphorism around here. They’re suspicious of their own neighbors.

There’s more cheer at the town gallows. Magdh, there are two of them.

And I get to spend three more nights here before the next travelers leave for Elidir.

Iskaryn is faring better than I am. The walls around us are high, but they enclose stretches of the farmland that surround the city–and its spite. There’s also a shabby orchard in the city’s center, the trees overgrown and gnarled from neglect.

From what I feel through the bond, she prefers the orchard and perches there during the day. As long as she minds Thilo’s warning, she can pass for nothing more than a particularly self-possessed bird.

She can feel me, too. When a stare lingers too long, or someone’s tone sharpens, I can feel her tense up. There’s this restrained indignation at the edge of my thoughts. She wants to intervene. I know how badly she does.

But she’s keeping herself in check.