Down in the valley there’s a town. I’m not really sure if this is where Ronain intended for me to go, were the wagons destined for this place? Or would they go elsewhere. Clearly the road that they were traveling on led straight here, so it’s at least likely they’d pass through.

Damn, I feel a bit like a detective wondering if I should take a case. Would it even be possible for me to figure out where they were planning to go just from the entering that town? How would I even go about entering it? People seem to have a nasty penchant for assuming I’m their enemy whenever they see me, or rather, I guess it’s the combination of covered in blood and black hair that triggers them somehow.

I mean, I guess I can see how the whole ‘covered in blood’ thing works, just not how having black hair figures into it. I mean, nobody has it here, so I can see it being strange, but not worthy of fear. It’s still just hair. Do they have devils or monsters with black hair or something?

Kids do not seem nearly as affected though. Why is it always adults? Maybe it’s something that happened in the distant past? Or something parents don’t tell their children about? Kind of hard to see why they wouldn’t if it’s so dangerous though. Blair seemed to be upset that I was in their barn, and that I let the pig out, but didn’t blink twice at the hair. Ronain did notice, but he didn’t react nearly as violently as the adults in his village.

Either way, if it’s the hair that triggers people, maybe I can hide it somehow? It doesn’t feel great. I kinda like my hair, but not so much that I’m going to keep risking my safety over it. I guess I can tie it up, and then try to cover it, but what would I even use to do that?

I really need some kind of scarf. I can cover it with the bag, but that’d look silly. I’m suddenly sorry I didn’t take the clothes from the workers or soldiers. I could have definitely fabricated something usable using the sword.

I mean, I suppose I could go back. It’s less than an hours walk away. But the idea of digging the bodies back up again is too much, even if they’re covered in only a token layer of soil. I’m guessing, but I imagine the smell of decay wafting off my head wouldn’t be any better than black hair. How quickly would that even start? Yesterday the bodies were but a few hours old, but now… Nope. Definitely not going to spend more time thinking about that.

Well, I have an alternative. I strip off my dress again, and take off the shirt that’s been under it all this time. Both of them are made of the same fabric, so it’s not as if I’d really lose anything, though the inner shirt is marginally finer. I spent a little while planning, drawing some examples in the dirt, to figure out how to transform what I have into something that can completely cover my head and keep all the hair inside. Slightly complicated by the fact that the only thing I have to work with is a sword.

I unsheathe the sword, and attempt to cut the fabric experimentally. It works a lot better than I’d have any right to expect, taking nearly no pressure to cut it cleanly. Who was this bandit, and why does he have such a razor-sharp sword? It doesn’t look like much—pretty much the most basic sword you can find. It’s not huge either, which works for me, but it’s clear he took the time to sharpen it to a fine edge. Is that really necessary for a bandit? The others were managing just fine with their spears. Maybe he stole it? That’d actually make a lot more sense, but it leaves the question of who the original owner was.

I inspect the sword more carefully, suddenly being more interested in that than in fabricating some scarf. There’s nothing like a crest on the sword though. It’s just a pointy blade of metal with a small cross-guard—if it can even be called that—and a round pommel on the end. The whole thing is almost entirely a dull metallic gray. The blade is marred with nicks and scratches from countless fights, but the edges are still razor-sharp. If there’s one thing that stands out, it’s how utterly unremarkable it is. I would’ve expected at least something to catch my eye.

I can’t look at the boring thing forever though, so eventually I just have to be happy with the sharpness, and finish my work.

Somehow, the end result isn’t completely terrible. Cutting off most of the torso and trying that around my head covers quite a bit of hair, unless someone lifts up the fabric dangling down my back and looks inside anyway. But I still have the issue that there’s just too much hair. As I feared, with this naive version it feels like it’d take only a little bit for everything to become visible. It’d be fine as long as my hair stays tied up. I could do that by cutting some other strips of fabric, but using such improvised stuff does not give me a great deal of confidence.

I guess I’ll just have to cut the excess off? I’m pretty annoyed at the thought of changing my look for these folks. But I’ve got to make the best of what I've got, so whatever, it’ll grow back. Turns out, I’ve got the perfect tool for the job anyway. Well, not exactly perfect—a sword isn’t exactly what you’d want for a haircut—but it might be better than anything else I have.

The improvised scarf flops back on the floor, and I take my lovely, sleek black ponytail and get ready to cut it with the sword. Well, that was the plan, but the sword has other ideas and slices right through my hair without me even having to think about it. I’m not sure if I should be offended or not. I wanted to build up to this moment, but now it’s too late—the damage is done. I look at my precious hair for a moment before tossing it in the bushes by the road. Then, without mercy, I turn the sword on my bangs on either side and whatever I can grab from the top of my head, being super careful not to actually touch my scalp. It feels like using a razor on your head—totally terrifying!

I can’t really see how much remains after I’m finished, given how I’ve never seen anything like a mirror in this world. I guess I could look for another farm with a cistern and use the water as a makeshift mirror. Or maybe find a natural water source. There’s no way a town this big could exist without some surface water nearby. It would be impossible to supply it all from a well like Ronain’s village, so if I can track that down, maybe then I’ll be able to see my reflection.

Honestly, I’m fairly certain I’m ok at this point. From what I can feel, I've got just a thin layer of hair left—maybe a couple of centimeters? It's definitely not cut evenly at all. I must look like a boy, one whose hair was attacked by a mad barber.

The scarf in my hand doesn’t look anything near as elegant as what I’ve seen other women wear, but maybe I can finally enter society as merely tasteless, poor, or likely both. I guess it isn’t all that uncommon for people to repurpose their old clothes though. Fabric is precious. At least I seem to remember it is.

The remainder of my shirt, mostly the sleeves, is stuffed into the sack. This time I’ll keep it for those moments that another brilliant idea like this suddenly comes to me.

I feel like a complete mess, but since I can't really check how I look anyway, I make my way down the hill.

About halfway down, I frown and dash back up to find the ponytail I threw in the bushes, tossing it in my bag as well. You never know when you are going to need fine hair like this. I'm not one for sentimentality—not at all. Yet somehow, my mind insists I've got two totally useless keepsakes with me, and my heart just brushes it off and says it doesn't matter.

The sword that was so handy goes right into my bag too. I really don't want to be seen lugging that around. Who knows, it might be illegal. I didn’t see anyone with a sword in Ronain’s village. It definitely stands out since it's the only long thing in the sack, but it’s way less obvious than when it’s hanging from my belt, shouting “I’m a sword!” to everyone giving me even a casual glance.

As I walk down the hill, and reflect on what just happened, I realize that I just had my very own “cutting off hair” scene. Somehow, it doesn’t feel nearly as significant to me as those usually are in the stories. Generally it means the people cutting off their hair are going to be more true to themselves. For me it means I can more easily pretend to be something I’m not. I mean, it’s not that I care very much, but it would have been nice for it to be like the stories instead.

image [https://pub-43e7e0f137a34d1ca1ce3be7325ba046.r2.dev/Group.png]

This is a pretty large valley, and I spend a while walking down the road. I briefly wonder how the mages were going to pull off this one. The slope isn’t very steep, so to let the wagons roll themselves down seems hard. Maybe they’d just move the wagons forward a little bit and leave the effort of controlling the descend to the workers with the ropes?

I feel some slight regret that I’ll never know the answer.

I practice with my juice-sight, maybe as a sort of homage to the mages? I dunno what else I’m going to call it, I guess this’ll stick until someone of this world tells me what they call it. Of course I’m not certain this is related to what the mages did, but dear god, it came from glowing blue fruits, time literally slows down when I do it, and I have a sorta second body that controls where the juice goes. I’d have to be insane to not suspect the two were related. It’s the only thing that’s not bog standard medieval history either.

Frowning, I knock my hand on a wooden fence next to the road in extreme slow motion, the resulting sounds muffled when they reach my ears. I’d very much prefer things to stay within the realm of reason. I don’t need any dragons, draugr, or nymphs to come spicing up this world. I mean, yes, of course, they’re awesome. But I barely survived as is, and the only thing I met was humans. I don’t want to think about how it’d have gone if I’d first met dragons.

Starting and stopping the effect is really disorienting, and more than a few times I stumble when coming out of it. I’d have stumbled when going in too, but the extra time makes it easy to adjust my steps to correct for it. Though moving your body when everything goes three times slower takes some getting used to. You’ll think you’ve placed your leg in one position, only to find it only a third of the way there. The effect does not seem to compensate for how long human brains seem to think something should take.

I’m beyond excited to be doing literally anything related to magic though. Even if it’s as tedious as this. There are incredible moments too, like when a butterfly flutters by and you can watch its wings moving in slow motion. The whole thing is very much like when I got my first microscope, and I had to stick everything I could get my hands on underneath it. Fabric is fucking weird when magnified a few hundred times.

At some point I try to talk while under the effect, and while I can’t really hear myself, I’m fairly certain it doesn’t sound like anything human.

The town I’m walking towards is not surrounded by a wall, as you sometimes see in the stories. It’s more like the density of buildings slowly increases towards a certain point. The farms are spaced closer together. Where closer together means you can see the next one over when standing at one of them. There are more people too, though nobody seems to pay any extra attention to me.

Sure, a few farmers glance over when they see me pass by. Some nod, others wave, but nobody pays more than a moment of attention before returning to work. I never expected to be so happy that nobody cares.

image [https://pub-43e7e0f137a34d1ca1ce3be7325ba046.r2.dev/Group.png]

As I get closer and closer to the town, I note that more and more people join me on the road. It appears to be the main street leading to the town, which given its size is probably unsurprising. It’s still packed dirt, but the large wagons could have driven over here, and all smaller footpaths and roads lead toward this one.

About halfway between the farm I left, and the town, I see something that nearly makes me rush over and throw myself in. A small stream. It’s far from a river, but it’s more running water than I’ve seen since coming here, you couldn’t push a barge over there, but I could maybe sink in all the way to my hips? I guess the road was built next to the stream, as it follows all the twists and turns, before, a few hundred meters from the village, there is a bridge, and the road crosses the stream.

The bridge is extremely solid. It’s one of the few things in this world that I’ve seen that’s constructed of stone. Shaped from two arches that seem nearly unnatural in how straight they are. It’s completely at odds with the all the surrounding organic stuff, and I can’t help but feel like magic was involved in its construction. Only for the two supporting arches though. It’s like they magically shaped those arches passing over the stream, and then heaped them with rubble. It makes for a very solid road, and not one I imagine is going to come down in the next two hundred years.

What is more relevant to me, is the water. I know I was hoping to find it, but this is better than anything I expected. I throw a quick glance back along the road. There’s a family with a handcart making its way down a few hundred meter back, and a few scattered people in front of me, but nothing that gives me cause for worry, as I jump off the road and follow the stream though the fields. There’s not as many farms in this direction, as the stream now leads directly away from the town. I’m not particularly concerned with where it’s going, as long as I can take my clothes off without anyone seeing me from the road. I’m not sure if they’d consider it normal for people to bathe in full view here, but they’d see my hair regardless, so I need to be careful.

Eventually, the stream has turned back and forth so many times that I feel like I can safely descend and take a dip. There’s a bunch of bushes providing cover on one end, and the land dips down roughly a meter towards the water anyway, so if I’m standing in the middle of the stream I’d be nearly impossible to spot for anyone not literally standing on the lip of the stream.

Before I dive in though, I take off the scarf and inspect myself. A strangers face stares back at me. I don’t know how long I’ve had that ponytail, but… I can’t think of myself as having anything but that. It’s not that I was attached to it as such, it was just me. Now I look like… not me. My head is an awful mess, and it’s kinda like what I imagine ‘tomboy’ means if the only thing they had to cut their hair was a pocket knife or something.

At some point in the distant past I stopped caring about what I was supposed to look like and figured my current appearance was fine. Then I just kept asking for the same thing whenever I went to the barber. Though I guess it helps that the people I was working with weren’t prone to noticing any changes to my hairstyle anyway. Maybe I just enjoyed not having to worry about it?

That said, being able to move my head without feeling my hair swing around is pretty nice, in an utterly practical sort of way. I still feel kinda lost without it right now. Who knows, maybe I’ll get used to this and never want anything else.

I won’t lie. Taking an unhurried bath is nice. Unlike before, I’m not mucking up the water this time. It all flows away downstream, far from me. Nor is there a chance of a random farmer suddenly stepping out of their house and chasing me off.

That doesn’t mean I’m stupid of course. My sword is always close at hand. I just have no occasion to use it.

When I’m clean, I wash the clothes again, rubbing them together properly, and thoroughly. It’s not perfect, but it’s a sight better than the last time I did this. I hang the clothes over some bushes and rocks, while I sit myself down on another and spend a long time just staring at the water, lost in thought, wondering what I’ll find in the village.

Miraculously, I'm not bothered or attacked by anything, and the morning sun dries my clothes in no time. After a couple of hours, I find my way back to the road, just as another family with a cart goes by. They look my way but don't linger; still, I think I catch a hint of an amused smile from the mother. Oh well. As long as they leave me be, I can handle a little laughter at my expense.

image [https://pub-43e7e0f137a34d1ca1ce3be7325ba046.r2.dev/Group.png]

Not long after I resume my trip, I get to a part of town where buildings actually line the street. The street isn’t exactly busy by my standards, but it’s still lively compared to the outlying farms. There’s more to the town, but this here looks like one of the main streets, considering the number of shops, and other commercial buildings that line the street.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

How do I know they are shops and commercial buildings? My amazing powers of deduction of course. People come and go from these buildings, but they go in with nothing, and come out with bags or hands full. Many of the buildings have a sign of some kind indicating exactly what you can get in there. Some other buildings are even more straightforward. I may come from an entirely different era, but there’s no missing the smithy. Can’t tell what exactly they make, but I very much doubt it’s weapons. Fruit and vegetables stands have apparently changed in only very minor ways since this period. All in all, some 40 different stores of different varieties encompass the street, each with several patrons in and around them. Men, women, families with children. I wonder if it’s a holiday. More and more people flow past me as I stand there too, clearly intent on a destination.

I’m going to guess that this town hold somewhere between two and four thousand people in an area encompassing some nine square kilometers, giving it a massive population density of some 330 people per square kilometer. Of course it’s a bit misleading since like a thousand of those probably live in and around the street I’m now standing at one end of. It sort of makes me nostalgic, and I suddenly regret I don’t have any coin for shopping.

Dare I walk into the street? So far nobody has given me a second glance, but if anyone does while I’m there, it’s going to be much harder to get away. I inspect the people walking past me and on the street nearby. None of them appear to be armed. Maybe I could just let my hair down and whip out my sword to keep them at bay? Assuming I can actually get it out before they grab me, that is. Trying to pull it from my bag in a panic is likely going to be pretty tricky.

Taking a deep breath, I walk into the street. The air is thick with the scent of baked bread and spices, with the laughter of children darting between stalls. I watch as a woman with a basket full of ripe apples exchanges pleasantries with an elderly man selling trinkets, their smiles almost infectious. Vendors call out their wares with practiced enthusiasm. It reminds me of nothing so much as a market back home, because that’s basically what it is. A lot of the buildings here are shops, but nearly all of them have their goods set outside, the sale happening there while the actual work proceed inside.

I stop to watch a group of children playing a game of tag, trying to figure out the rules of their mayhem. Their joyous shrieks cut through my muddy thoughts like sunlight piercing clouds, reminding me of the time I was young. Did I run around like this? I have vague memories of playing in the street, at the shopping center. Guess this is another one of those things that’s as old as time. Parents can hardly leave their kids at home, so they bring them along wherever they need to go. I wonder how many of these kids relish having the opportunity to visit town. I guess all their time is spent at the farm.

My inattention in the presence of a horde of kids costs me, and one of their group bowls right into my back as the rest of them rush past me. I stumble forward, catching myself just in time before I frown at their retreating backs. When they realize what happened, they scatter, eyes wide with surprise before—when they find me more bemused than angry—bursting into giggles. As if me face-checking one of their own is the funniest thing in the world. To them, I’m not a scary outsider, I’m just another adult that became an incidental part of their game. The fact I don’t speak a word of their language matters nothing to them.

I check to see that my hair is still hidden, but I needn’t have worried. The veil is pretty solid, even if it looks terrible. That said, there are a few people looking my way. Given the way they appear to be suddenly hurrying their business along though, I imagine that’s a bunch of concerned parents. One man even hurries over to me—leaving the merchant he was buying a sack of grain from standing there high and dry in the process of handing over the merchandise—and apologizes profusely.

I wave him off, still bemused by this whole thing. Simply… hiding my hair, and suddenly I’m just a normal person on the street. It’s really that simple?… I almost want to hit myself. How much trouble could I have saved myself by finding a hood, or I dunno, a fuck-off big leaf before doing anything else in this world. Maybe I could have use the rabbit’s skin to fashion myself a crude hat? I still can’t fathom why they’d attack people with black hair on sight. I mean, sure, lots of theories. Just nothing definitive, but man.

Shaking my head, I finish my traversal of the street, being enticed by many different sounds and smells along the way. It’s a shame I don’t have any… wait a second. I dig around in my bag, and pull out a small pouch of coin. That’s right. I took that on the spur of the moment in the village and then completely forgot about it.

I open the pouch and glance inside. There appear to be 7 square copper coins with a hole in the middle in the pouch. I’m not sure how much value these actually represent though, and I try to surreptitiously look around if anyone else is using coins.

Most people are bartering with goods though. Probably all the stuff they brought in from the farms. Now I wish I’d brought that bandit’s old boots. The cobbler seems to be getting nearly a bucketful of supplies for every pair of shoes he sells. Not that I see him selling more than one, but they’re not even very nice ones, and like, that’s a lot of cheese. I can totally see those boots fetching a cartload of supplies. Not that I could carry that, but maybe I could get it in coin? Dreaming is nice.

At the end of the street, there's a square—well, it's more like a large circle—but it looks like a spot for people to come together. There’s some grass, and families are settled down enjoying what looks like breakfast. Or is it lunch? Now that I think about it, it should still be morning, but with all the activity around, it feels more like afternoon to me.

What am I going to do? I have been feeling like an adventurer ever since I came here, but, is that truly a way to make a living here? Is that even the way I want to make a living? There’s all kinds of professions I’d never even considered just in this street here, and my wild chase after those wagons is starting to feel more like a silly daydream. Sure, I want to learn magic, but my supplies run out in a week, and then what am I left with? I can’t deny suddenly feeling extremely comfortable now that I’m back in what I consider civilisation. It’s some thousand years out of date, sure, but this here is a true community.

What I’m worried about is that I’m deluding myself. I’d love to be cobbler, sure, well, maybe not, but I’ve spent my life making things, and I’m confident I can find something to make here that will bring me joy and give me a steady paycheck. If it involves magic, great; if not, I’ll manage. What I’m not sure about is how I get from where I am to where I want to go. What I think I need to find is a true city. Some place that someone like me, someone clearly considered an oddity will just get lost in the noise. My home was like that, and I'm sure there’s somewhere in this world that's similar. Not nearly to the same extend of course. I doubt there’s a lot of tourism going on here. But any place with access to the sea, if such a place exists here, is sure to have all sorts of people around.

Now how do I find a city? I guess that’s where I expected the wagons to go. Supplies for some merchant? For a large smithy? I seem to recall that the world runs on wood in this era, or coal, but I’m not sure if that’s available yet. It seems like I only really started to hear about coal usage in the industrial revolution. Which is kinda weird, considering it should be around in the same places now. Maybe I can use my foreknowledge of its uses to start a business empire? I struggle to imagine myself behind a massive mahogany desk, puffing cigars. If only I were reincarnated into a young body, then it’d be fun to play the prodigy. Right now I’m just a dolt.

Well, if there’s one caravan going to a city, there’s going to be more, and this town would be a prime place for them to gather, or pass through. I need to see if this place has something like a tavern. Or like a roadside inn.

image [https://pub-43e7e0f137a34d1ca1ce3be7325ba046.r2.dev/Group.png]

I stand at the entrance to a large courtyard, filled with a variety of wagons and carts, from small to large, though nothing quite as massive as the lumber wagons I was following. None of these appear to be operated by mages, given the large number of pack and draft animals I see bound to the a hitching post. Donkeys, mules and a single horse. But the large majority seem to be oxen. Massive beasts that I haven’t had much occasion to see before. Then there’s that one guy that tied a cow to the post, I really wonder where they are going. There’s a small stable, but it’s more like a roof over the otherwise open courtyard, and the only thing in it is the aforementioned horse.

Beyond the courtyard, is the inn. A sturdy wooden building that’s two floors tall. A rarity in these environs. It’s hard to not be intimidated by the sheer size of the building, it being nearly twice as large as the largest farmhouse I’ve seen so far. The roof is surprisingly not thatched, but consists of wooden shingles. The bottom floor has small slits for windows, while the top floor boasts larger openings, all of which are closed with shutters at the moment. A sign hangs over the entrance, featuring a very worn-out painting of a bed, and I can’t help but wonder when it last got a fresh coat of paint.

All that to say, I find myself intimidated. It’s not that I might need to talk to people there, though there is that. Or that I don’t know what’s inside, and anything could happen. Those would be sensible reasons. No. I find myself intimidated because this is a real, honest to god inn, like from the stories. Where Bilbo and the dwarves sleep on their way to the forgotten mountain, where Kvothe told his stories, where like, every goddamn adventure starts. It’s the stuff of legends! I’m just worried that I’ll destroy all my fantasies by actually going in. This world has been a hard reality check in many ways, and I really don’t want to lose this little bit that I’m still desperately holding on to.

In the end, my curiosity is stronger. And a good thing too, because it’s nearly everything I imagined. I open the door, and the pungent smell of unwashed bodies hits me right in the face. I frown a little, but I suppose I’ll get used to it in no time. A quick glance through the room I’m standing in confirms it’s the common room, and… bar, check. Long tables and benches, check. A fireplace, check. Rowdy patrons, check. Suddenly, my gaze snaps back to them. I can’t believe these folks are downing ale at 9 in the damn morning! I shake my head in disbelief and continue my inspection. There doesn’t seem to be anyone behind the bar, but there’s a girl who looks about 15 serving up bowls of porridge to the drinkers.

I can only imagine how ridiculous I must look, standing in the doorway with my eyes practically popping out of my head. I’m one step shy of a screaming fangirl here. Aside from the screaming, I just can’t see myself ever doing that. But I can’t keep blocking the entrance, so I sink down on the nearest bench. The only person sitting at this table is an older man that doesn’t even give me a glance.

There are six tables altogether, each set up to seat about 8 people, with four on each side. If you really wanted to, you could probably cram in 5 on a side. At the moment, there are around 15 folks in the common room, all dressed in various tunics that range from decent to pretty worn out. Naturally, they all have charming blonde or maybe a touch of brown hair.

Before I can think of what to do next, the girl I saw earlier is standing next to me. "An eil thu a' dol a thaghadh rudeigin no dìreach a' suidhe an sin ag iarraidh?" she asks, her hands resting on her hips in a way that suggests both impatience and a hint of amusement. Her voice is surprisingly confident for someone so young, and I wonder how long she’s been doing this. I fumble for words. She’s clearly expecting me to order something. I should have thought of that before I let my fantasies guide me in here. Will they let me stay if I say no?

Panic surges through me, and I can feel the heat creeping up my neck as I scramble for a response. My mind races, flitting between the various fare I’ve heard of in tales and the more mundane options they might actually have here, then discarding all of them because I have no clue how to say any of them. I want to say porridge, but it’s not a word Ronain ever covered. "Uh, pàisde?" I finally manage to stammer out, hoping bread is a safe choice that won’t reveal my utter lack of experience with tavern life. The girl raises an eyebrow, her amusement deepening as if she can see right through my facade of calm. “Gu dearbh, tha arain againn,” she replies with a smirk, before gesturing towards a large basket on the bar that’s brimming with rolls. “Ach bu chòir dhut beagan càise no feòil a chur ris ma tha thu ag iarraidh biadh freagairteach.”

Something about cheese. Oh man, this was a terrible idea. I can just imagine my face looking like a ripe tomato right now. I better leave before I make it any worse.

But before I can rise from the bench, the older man at the table glances over at me, his eyes narrowing slightly as if sizing me up. There's a certain wisdom in his gaze, a hint of mischief that suggests he’s seen many travelers come and go. “Chan eil thu à seo, an e?” he asks, his voice gravelly yet warm.

I hesitate for a moment, caught off guard by his directness, I thought he was going to keep to himself, but apparently I was wrong. Something about me, and here? What do I do here? Fuck I don’t know. I should have asked Ronain how to say I don’t speak this rotten language. Would they react as violently to someone speaking English?

The older man’s gaze is unwavering, and I feel the weight of his scrutiny pressing down on me. Finally, I can’t stand it any more, and I jump up from my seat “Chan eil fhios agam, duilich.” I finally manage to reply, using the full extend of my vocabulary to tell him I don’t know, my voice barely above a whisper as I back towards the doorway.

But before I can make my escape, the girl who had been serving porridge steps forward, her expression shifting from playful to sympathetic, curious. "Tha e ceart gu leòr," she says in a softer tone, her words incomprehensible, but her tone one of reassurance. "Chan e thusa an toiseach a tha air chall ann an eadar-theangachadh." She looks at the older man questioningly, who merely raises an eyebrow at her.

Then he sighs and, with a long suffering look at the girl, says "Kanntu þetta tungumál?”, and at my uncomprehending expression, continues, much more haltingly with "Poso gia afto?”.

This man! He knows multiple languages! There are multiple languages! Unfortunately, they’re all equally incomprehensible to me. I’d have a better chance of understanding him in the original one. “Duilich…” I can only say. He presses his lips together, thinking while he mutters to himself "Càit a bheil i air tighinn à?"

I have only a moment to think about it, but I take a chance “Do you? Understand English?” I ask him. Ronain wasn’t upset with the language, so I guess it should be fine.

The man and the girl both look at me like I’m speaking in riddles, and my heart falls. The girl and the man have a rapid fire conversation that I have no hope of following, but eventually the girl walks off to the kitchen, and comes back with a bowl of steaming porridge, which she places in front of me with a slight smile. “An seo, tha an seann duine sin a' pàigheadh."

I shift my gaze back and forth between her and the man, who offers me a faint smile and gestures toward the bowl. He seems lost in thought himself. I want to believe he’s some kind of secret wizard, ready to finally guide me on the adventure I should have been having all along. But no matter how I try to see him that way—faded tunic, bushy beard, nearly white hair cascading down his back—I just can’t manage it. His clothes are shabbier than what the mages on the carts wore. Even if he knows multiple languages, that just makes him learned or well traveled, not a wizard.

The girl has gone off to take care of other guests, but I can’t help but feel grateful to her as I blow on my porridge. I scoop some out with the spoon, giving it a gentle puff before shoving it into my mouth. Eating it feels like finally coming home after a long night. Tears stream down my face, and I don’t mind if anyone notices. Hot food! How long has it been since I’ve had this? It’s delicious too, even better than I expected.

When I’m halfway through the bowl, I look up to find the old man looking at me with that thoughtful expression still on his face. I suppose I might as well chance it if they’re happy to feed me, and say "Baile-mòr?” “City" That word I remember, because Ronain was enthusiastic about it, and because it took us so long to figure out. Small town boy, it’s no surprise he’d want to go to the city. Then he told me to go there, so that’s what I’ll do.

The man seems surprised by my words at first, but then he slowly nods. "Tha, dh’fhaodadh sin a bhith freagairt.” At least he seems to agree with me. He mimes walking with his fingers, and I nod enthusiastically. That faint, slightly wistful smile appears on his face again, as he stands up. Then he says “Fuirich an seo.” motioning to the rest of my bowl, and he totters out of the inn. Guess I’ll wait.

I’ve finished my bowl, and the girl has checked up on me once, when the man comes back in with a piece of bark in his hand. It seems I’m not the only one that thinks that’s convenient writing material. In the absence of paper anyway. He sits down at the table again, and takes some sort of stylus out of a pocket, which he begins scratching away with. A few minutes later, he motions me over, and shows me the results. It’s a crude map of the surroundings. Really nothing more than the town, and presumably major roads leading from it. The town is on one end of the bark, and he’s dragged a long line all the way to the other, where a much larger circle is, and a long wavy line right next to it.

Presumably he’s not quite sure about how much I know, because he’s drawn little icons for sun up, and sun down, to indicate which way is north. Or rather, the orientation of the map, since I have no idea if this world even has a north. That’s quite ingenuous, and my respect for this man increases once again.

He may not be a magus, but he’s certainly learned. I wonder what he does in this village? Either way, he’s very insistent that I follow the path he’s drawn. He replays the route I need to go a few times, then has me going off the path a few times, then very emphatically says "Chan eil!” Not something he thinks is wise, that’s for certain. Another part of his bark is a sun with five lines right next to it, which he explains with words and motions, but the idea is clear. Five days, that’s how long it will take me if I walk straight to this city.

It’s a surprisingly short distance, but many terrible things happened on my way here, and that journey took just a little more than a day.

There is one more talk between the man and the girl, in which the girl seems to try to convince the man of something, but he shakes his head emphatically, glancing at me from the corner of his eyes, a knowing smile on his face. I’m not sure what he thinks he knows, but somehow, it doesn’t make me uneasy. I should be more careful, more suspicious, but I just can’t imagine this man bears me any ill will. Eventually the girl gives up whatever she was attempting, and just looks at me ruefully, before winking. I’m not sure what to think of a 15 year old winking at me, but, whatever I suppose?

As thankful as I am, for both the porridge, and the map. I’m eager to leave now. I have a goal, and a full belly, and I worry that not everyone in the inn will be as friendly and helpful as these two. Looking like a helpless woman, nay being a helpless woman, has benefits and drawbacks.

Just before I step out of the doorway, the man speaks up "Tilg air ais uaireannan, nuair a thèid thu a-mach air na tha thu a' sireadh.” I don’t know what it means at all, but I nod to him, and it seems to satisfy him. Then I’m out the door.

I didn’t find a caravan, but I found something much more valuable. I clasp the strip of bark in my hands, and I can’t help but feel hopeful for the future. A city might not solve all my problems, but just maybe, it may solve some of them. Ronain seemed to think so anyway, so I’ll just have to trust him on that. Though I suppose, it might make them worse. I don’t believe medieval cities were known for being especially pleasant places.