Into The Rift

Air of Conflict (13)

The sun offers her tidings—radiant in her visage upon the bastion city's eternal grounds. With nothing but idle muses to guide me, I wander through the tangle of districts, relishing the return of normalcy in the wake of the shapes that flew above.

Craftsmen and merchants haggled endlessly within the markets, speaking fervently of wares and trades. Their patrons—soldiers and citizens alike fell to their hymns, parting towards their stalls with the promise of coin and trinkets—already forsaking the strange incident that once stilled their thoughts.

"Fresh from the heartlands," a women cries with renewed vigor, clad in a simple green dress—merchant's crest pinned on her bosom, "Honeyed and prepared. Two dimes for a sack, ten for a bag."

Apples, grapes and more sat on braided baskets, arranged for the eye's delight. Their scent wafts out from her aisle, filling the streets and air with sweetness. With each breath, they leave a fresh and tangible taste—as though plucked only moments ago.

She was helped by three men, perhaps a husband and two sons. They were a family, upholding a livelihood even with the threat of an impending siege.

Though I could spare a few coins to sate my palette, it is not fruits I wanted. The many stalls offered plenty but salted meat, the few that did were expensive. Twenty dimes or more for just a single serving—unreasonable even in times of war.

I move along the packed aisles, wading through more tides of people as the chime of coins fell. In its absence, rose a natural silence as the streets parted. There were no soldiers, only the common folk—including children.

Domed houses beset the snaking path ahead on both sides, their roofs equal in colour and height, barely rising to challenge the skies at a meagre six paces. At its end sat a junction that led to yet more houses. I have no business being here.

Perhaps threading alone was a mistake. Had Sephra been with me, she would at least insist on ointments and herbs. Anything to uphold her sworn oaths she would likely profess, as is her claim time and time again.

With my wanderlust snuffed, I stroll along the beaten path back to the garrison—coins unspent, and thoughts mellowed. The chime of wares returns, but it quickly falls as I enter the outskirts where the bastion city's grand battlements can be seen towering like chiseled teeth upon the horizon.

Several knights from the Aegis cohorts stood on guard beneath a lone tower, swords planted and hands resting upon pommel. A knight turns to me, offering his regards with a raised hand.

"Herald be praised," the Knight greets, voice firm and bold as his stature.

"Herald be praised," I softly echo, offering the esteemed warrior a passing wave as the garrison's domes come into view from behind him.

The bold stonework offers shade and certainty, calling for my return to its holdings. In the days since—far from the lands of my birth, I have come to call this place home. As did many others.

Familiar faces lingered ahead, immersed in a tent's welcoming shade. They spoke in hushed tones around a brewing cauldron, offering a wave as I neared to join their musings beneath the drape.

"Inora," came an expectant voice, "how goes your endeavors." The Highlander gestures to an empty spot beside him.

I raise the coin bag, offering a weak tone, "None of the butchers were willing barter. A fresh serving now costs over twenty dimes. It was only fifteen two days ago."

I plop down with a sigh. A hand offers comfort on my shoulders as I stare at the boiling cauldron. Fires lapped at its iron belly, preserving the brew's inviting scent.