Travel, a strange thing, especially for a man born on, and destined for it. My old father always told me that it's good for the soul, sleeping beneath a tree now and then, catching fish for supper, and feeling the distance between you and the world, even just for a day or two. It was good to see the old tinker. My river sprite wandered away with me, a promise kept, or an honest want, I'm not sure either way yet, we'll have to see.
The stone quarter is a welcome rest in its own way, watching the swindlers at their stalls brings a strange comfort with it, it might be the brandy though, or the leaf.
I see why some have these little leather bound things, I can tell to you, the things I would never speak out loud.
Time to get back to the hovel, Briannon has promised another stew.
