Ane beats a swift retreat back to her wagon. It’s quieter there, and nobody will ask her about strange deliveries of produce, or the results of her strange daily adventures. She can finish that cigarillo, maybe meditate a little bit, see how her bolete tincture is starting to get on, even talk to the stone slipshell for a little while – she’s certain it must house some strange spirit within.
Ane lets herself in through the half-door of her rustic, weather-worn wagon, and bolts it shut behind her. Minutes later, she’s back in her robe, lying beneath her window with the music of an old song crystal filling the wagon and a pot of geltsear leaf tea steeping beside her bed.
She probably should’ve foreseen that the monk was going to end up in the caravan. Hopefully he doesn’t get himself killed by the first troupe of bandits they come across — it’s not likely he’ll end up safely housed, unless he has some previously-undisclosed talent for juggling, puppetry, contortionism, or the like.
Ane pours herself a generous cup of tea, watching a few stray leaves twirl and dance in the current. As she raises it to her lips for a sip, she reclines against her pillows to ready herself for the long road ahead. The trail to grand S’varga is long and fraught with danger, but great profit and adventure await in those deep, cavernous atriums and amongst its underground city spires.
Across the room, the slipshell figure stands vigil over a bloodstained page. His dull, uncritical eyes belie a gentle guardian, one that cannot fathom the danger to come.
Where one trail ends, another begins.
The caravan rolls on.