Ashurai brought them to where the caravan's horses were tied, and Marek and Mags did the same with their mounts. His eyes shone dark and intense when he told them, “You can see to your mounts once we've settled matters. Nothing is decided without a vote. Come, we will speak to the others."

The camp was situated between four trees with enough room to fit everyone, and Gorb and the others were waiting in silence. Apparently, their approach hadn't gone unnoticed.

"Friends are best received in the full light of day," the golemite said in its rumbling tones. "Ashurai predicted we might see you two again, so we are not surprised, but take care. My warrior friend is ever vigilant.”

Marek bowed his head slightly, smiling nervously. "Sorry, we did try to catch up sooner. Mags and I had to leave Middlebrook quicker than anticipated, and we didn't think it wise to rush headlong down the road. It's the first time either of us have traveled this far west."

Hamin hummed lyrically while twirling a wooden spoon. "We haven't seen the west yet,” he said. “Far, far the Old Highway goes. We've only just started down that road."

Mags perked up a little. "I'm excited to see Shirgrim. In fact, one day I hope to see the elvish kingdom of Aiel. I've heard too many stories from my folks. We're of the old blood of Ardea and worship the true gods—those most overlook these days."

The driver tittered, his head flopping side to side awkwardly. “True gods? Old blood? Perspective is a strange thing among humans.”

Strange comment, coming from someone presumably human, Marek thought. Wonder what he’s hiding beneath his cloak and mask.

Gorb shifted his bulk so that his huge and wondrous eyes could see Ashurai. “I sense your anxiety, friend. We will make this part quick so you may resume your duties. Do you object to the travelers joining with us?"

"I prefer to know the intentions of my companions before I travel with them," the warrior replied sternly.

Hands folded serenely in his lap, the old man seated at the far edge of the clearing inclined his head. "Intentions? My young Ashurai, you know nothing of me or mine and yet we have been companions for several years. It’s unlike you to pry.”

Marek sensed the warrior tense beside him and cleared his throat. “I don’t feel it’s prying when indeed, we do wish to accompany your caravan across the mountains. Mags and I don't need to know your business and we do prefer to keep ours private, but in good faith, I'll gladly tell you our objective." The attention of all present fell on the young man. He shuffled his feet nervously and threw out the best white lie he could come up with. "My uncle is a sickly man. He's in great need of herbs, and my friend and I agreed to travel deep into the Shirgrim Mountains in search of rare medicinals. That is our goal.”

Ashurai frowned, his wariness palpable. "Why not search in Ardea or Western Casteras? Both would be easier to access."

Mags stepped in, likely not trusting Marek's ability to move beyond half-truths. "The hills in the northern parts of Ardea have been combed over. Everyone with a nose for Witch Hazel is snooping about to make coin on the impending war. Half our hometown had the same idea, it seemed. Also... we may or may not have pissed off a Casteran emissary on our way to Middlebrook."

Marek would have laughed at Mags' performance had its success not been necessary. The woman had not only nailed the tone of her speech perfectly, alternating from pragmatic to sheepish at the end, but also gotten the body language down. Mags dipped her head slightly and bit the inside of her bottom lip—a subtle tell most would overlook.

“They’ve a saying in the east… Trouble with the emissary is trouble with the kingdom," the old man said, blindfolded face turned to Mags. "She's clever with tongue and true of heart. I always welcome a tall tale told from one so small. My vote is they join. At the very least, our nightly meals won’t be so dreary.”

The blind wanderer's words twisted in loops, both in meaning and style of expression. His speech was lilting and coy, and it made one question which aspects were sincere.

Tall tale? Marek thought. Does he sense she's lying?

Ashurai grunted. Brow stern and unyielding, he looked between Marek and Mags before saying, “I’ve stayed too long. Rushi shouldn't be left alone on guard. You and Hamin settle things with these two."

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With that, he left the clearing, hand grasping the hilt of a longsword hung at his belt. Marek's eye drifted to the opposite hip, where a shorter blade rested. The warrior wears two blades, he noted. I must have missed that in the chaos of the kobold raid. One was the size of a typical side sword, but its handle stretched almost as long as a greatsword’s. It was odd to see such a discrepancy. Marek wondered if it might be due to the warrior’s relatively short stature. Or perhaps the man preferred speed and dexterity over reach and power.

The shorter weapon curved slightly. Basari scimitars were the only common blades Marek knew of with such a design, though he’d heard the elves carried thin sabers with the same feature. Ashurai’s weapon looked like neither, however, far thinner than a scimitar and shorter than any saber. Strange combination. Then again, a Basari that travels between Ardea and Shirgrim would have odd habits. Wonder if he can fight with both at the same time.

"One of three has spoken in favor," Gorb said formally. "I will make the second, then. You will be allowed to accompany our caravan."

Hamin stirred his wooden spoon in a lazy circle at the bottom of an empty bowl. The veiled man nodded more than was necessary and added, "Join the caravan and join the guard, they say. We don't know you yet, so enjoy your sleep while it lasts.”

“Hamin is right,” Gorb added. “You will gather wood, tend the fire, and wash dishes at dawn to take up the slack."

"We don't mind," Mags said. Throwing a glance over her shoulder, she said more privately to Marek, "Should I see to the horses and gear? You can stay and get to know our new friends."

Marek suppressed a sigh. He'd been hoping to steal away. The group they'd joined up with was strange in the extreme. Though he didn't share the Middlebrook guard's bigotry for other races, he had to admit Gorb made him nervous. Coupled with the driver's covered face and strange antics, not to mention the old man's random remarks, he was anything but relaxed.

"Sounds great," he lied, baring his teeth in an approximation of a smile.

Gorb patted the ground with its massive hand. "Come, young adventurer. Let's hear a story of the life you left behind. Nothing like context to gain greater understanding."

Marek studied the flames in the little campfire. A pot of stew bubbled on the end of a tripod hanging above. Herbs and an odd spice he couldn't identify added to the aroma of the cedar grove surrounding them. "What would you like to hear?" he asked, baffled as to how one might entertain a golemite.

"You mentioned an uncle. What is this man's name and how would you describe him?"

This time, Marek couldn't stop the sigh that came out. Lying about Mirrin would be improbable at best. He’d need to tailor his words to exclude anything too revealing. “Well, my Uncle Mirrin is a Master Sigilist, the finest in all of Misthearth," he began. The driver and old man showed little signs of listening, and yet he sensed they were. As for Gorb, the creature stared intently with those luminous, unblinking eyes. "He taught me as well, though I'm still only a Novice. Mirrin is a complicated man. He's been sick for as long as I can remember, and yet he carries with him an unburdened soul. Mirrin smiles more than he should for all the agony he’s endured.”

As he spoke, Marek found he missed the old man he'd spent so much of his life with. Only a few times had he been absent from Mirrin so long, and with all the hardship and stress of travel, he hadn't noticed the homesickness.

“One of the last projects we worked on was an enchantment for a baker’s oven,” he continued. Keeping to safer topics, he gave the caravanners a portion of the life he’d left behind.

His new companions asked many questions, and while they studied him, he did the same in return. More and more oddities floated to the surface of his awareness. Gorb busied itself by consuming a few glittering rocks during Marek’s recollections. The golemite split the hard stones in its mouth and chewed them into grit as if it were the most natural thing in the world. For one of its kind, Marek had to assume it was.

Hamin, on the other hand, had even stranger eating habits. He pretended to eat the stew when it was served, chewing noisily after each imagined bite. Ashurai, who’d returned from watch long enough to fill a bowl, gave the excuse that the driver was fasting. Such restrictions weren’t odd in and of themselves, but the great diligence and attention to detail Hamin exhibited in consuming the imaginary bowl of food was. He even went so far as to belch when the meal was finished.

Seemingly intent on competing with his odd companions, the old man’s behavior was equally perplexing. At times, he sat quietly without moving an inch, while at others, Marek thought the old man might be praying when a faint, droning hum issued from his lips. And more than once, while the stranger sat with crossed legs and a straight spine, Marek doubted his original assumption about the stranger's age. The old man wasn't particularly worn in the face. No deep lines etched his cheeks or forehead, and his eyes were hidden by the blindfold. Yet as Marek perceived the stranger, his features read as younger or older at various times.

Marek chocked it up to fatigue and the effects of stress on his imagination. Mags returned eventually and picked up the burden of storytelling. She also got her first opportunity to pet Rushi—an act which obviously delighted her, though she was careful not to overstep or frighten the panganid.

Thankfully, the group didn’t stay up late. Soon, the fire was dampened and bedrolls were brought out. Marek slept fitfully, dreams shrouded in shadows, but he was grateful for the rest in spite of this. In the early morning, he woke to Gorb’s rumbling speech outside their tent.

Stretching his sore body in the chill of early morning, he left Mags to catch a few more minutes of sleep while he saw to the camp’s needs. He hadn’t a clue what to expect in the coming days. With a daemon lurking in the recesses of his mind, the Casterans possibly tracking him, and a tribal war in the passes ahead, Marek was certain they would be eventful.