“You’re staying behind te' clean up the streets,” said the man, “Were leavin' a horse for you to catch up. Return it directly to the wagonmaster. Now meet up with those,” he pointed, “before the caravan rolls out.”

Isden took his pack gear, rummaged through it to see what he could eat, as he went to where other’s were standing with wide brooms.

"So, wot'll ye going to pay us for sweeping up this filthy straw?” One of them smirked as Isden took a broom.

On the grey light of morn, the caravan rolled out. It was a long, snow covered flat-rock pass. It must have been midday that the front of the caravan reached green timbers, hospitable to fungi, the old-growth forest of Mythwyd. Here, the caravan rested quickly, tightened ranks. A stretch of a red clay road pierced the bulwark forest, and the sky vanished almost completely in the low hanging mist. At the head of the column, the wagonmaster waved a white staff, and the caravan moved into the green wall. In ancient times, Arcanomancers called up globes of light to put away the morning-shade. A change in focus. A caravan crossing the hinterland also meant that it was the season of active trade, and as the morning brightened the air resounded with cheerful voices and music. Lively music was coming from a Great Hall, the top of which was already visible from the road. Caellysta wanted to see the players, and dancers from the sounds of it, with Theve and Eve along with her.

“Shoo them away, dear spirit! The worms won't come up with fat stomping people feets!” They cawed indignantly with black flames in their eyes.

I drifted over Isden racing on the back of a horse along the woodland highway, and in a short span I swooped over the people as they fanned into the remote forest village of Haltwyke. A old grey cluster of tiled-roof cottages and stone buildings. I landed in a bough tethered with dry bramble, as Isden rode very slowly on a courtyard in the center of the village. He dismounted and handed the reins to one of the wagonmaster’s hirelings.