The travellers.
Just got here, and we are already leaving He doesnt bother buying any food. He seems self-contained, able to support himself. Or maybe he is mad, or broke, or derives nutrition through photosynthesis. Either way, he shoulders his messenger-bag and starts off with the others.
The merchant soon returns with the brown mount, a white star on its forehead. He nods, as he is ready.
The mismatched Menagerie head down the thorough-faire, the smell of men and women and merchant sweating as one whole assaults nostrils as they pass by the market-square to pick up necessary supplies. They pass through the yelling, grabbing, filching, gossiping, and generally undulating mass of flesh with some ease, getting what food they need at a reasonable price. Faileas buys a flask of drink and a pipe with a can of tobacco, his ideas of preperation are a mite flawed, you think.
Once through there, the main gate in just a little down the north road, a few turns sees them there. The guards are there to check incoming freight and direct merchants and men alike to their destination. They tip their wide brimmed metal helm as the men leave, to busy to pay any real attention. A breeze outside is turned into a gale by the gates wind-tunnel of a opening. Clothes are fluttered, and hair is whipped around, Faileas misses the smell of sea in the air, but enjoys the freedom it represents. But moving through the force takes little effort, but a bad way to start a journey, with even the winds holding the travellers back.
We are outside, now. The conspiracy flying overhead, like a druid's tiny escort/cloud.
