Arlinstead welcomes them with warmth too perfect, smiles too synchronized, and streets scrubbed too clean. But beneath the firelight and ritual chants, something older stirs—something dressed in reverence, but hollow at the core.
"Behind the inn, their wagon was stabled, the oxen watered by a wiry stableboy with darting eyes and trembling hands. He wouldn’t meet anyone’s gaze, and his hands trembled as he gripped the reins.
Inside, the inn glowed with well-curated warmth. The fire roared in a blackened stone hearth large enough to roast an ox. Its light danced across thick tables scarred with generations of use. Townsfolk drank and laughed with a cheer that sounded one note too high, one beat too loud. Their tankards clinked in time with the chant that still drifted faintly from the square beyond.
Others huddled in the corners, whispering over carved roots and smooth stones, maps curled at the corners. Their eyes flicked toward the newcomers—some curious, others unreadable."
"The rooms upstairs waited. Galot’s door shut with a soft, final click. On his bedside table: a sealed scroll, marked with the symbol of the Stone.
He did not touch it.
Malak stood at his shuttered window. The chapel glowed again. Not the glow of hearthlight. Something too clean. Light without warmth. As if it came not from fire, but from performance."
Coming soon: Reflections, background, and thoughts from the trail.
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