And so she travelled on, locked in her gleaming nobleman's cage.

At first she took some pleasure in the Empire's green vales and towering woods, the call of a mourning-dove or glimpse of a beautiful stag, bounding through the bracken and ivy off the side of the road.  But at the middle point between the capital and their destination Montegarde seemed to grow damp and wretched.  The road was swallowed up by puddles and mud, in places little more than slats of rotting wood over a burgeoning moat, and she could taste the hard misery of the shuffling figures bearing loads of firewood, glancing at them expressionlessly as the horses drew them past.

And when night fell, even the lovelier face of the countryside changed.  The sprawling hills vanished into a pall of fog and shadow.  The woods and thickets blackened into threatening silhouettes, their tops swaying in the chill night wind.  The moon shone down, pale and bright, glowing sparsely through a drifting sea of heavy, soupy clouds.  The temperature slowly dropped as they travelled further and further from her home, and she slumped in the corner of the carriage, huddled under her coat, staring forlornly out of the window with her eyelids slowly dropping, opening with a faint start as the carriage went over some rut or pothole, dropping again as the rock and sway and rattle of their journey lulled her back to sleep.

She blinked herself awake when they stopped, rustling under the coat and slurring a vague question in her own language as to whether or not they were there yet.  She sat herself up, suddenly alert at the mention of torches and pitchforks.  Foreigner though she may be, she had heard stories, all of them with highly specific endings.

Gregor, however, only looked at her grimly as he swung open the door and got his foot on the step, admitting a grey wisp of coiling fog into the carriage.

"...And you --" he ordered, "Stay inside." 

Loka immediately bristled at the command.  Getting out of the now stuffy and confining transport suddenly seemed of paramount importance.  She waited, fidgeting, listening for the sound of raised voices or conflict, but none came.  

...Yes, she had waited long enough.  It had to have been at least forty seconds.  She sat forward, still listening as best she could, shrugging into the heavy coat with some difficulty, buttoning the collar up to her chin and pulling on her gloves.

"Miss?" murmured the driver uneasily, glancing back through the tiny, tilted rectangle of glass.

"Shut up." Loka replied.

She unlatched the window and swung it open, supporting herself on her hands, leaning out at an angle and trying to see through the press of shadow on shadow, the torchflames shifting like wisps in the middle of the black road.  The smell of dried fear and clotting blood oozed between the flickering, firelit shapes, and there was something [i]else,[/i] a faint, rank odour twisting amidst the mud, manure and stagnant water, the cold, wet greenery and rotting bark and faint scent of animal musk, torchsmoke and human unease.  Familiar and unpleasant.  She licked her lips sourly as she tasted pain and disgust.  She knew it well and yet couldn't quite place it.  It was maddening.

She could hear Gregor murmuring between the crowd.  There was tension in them, but it was blanketed beneath a heavy weight of resignation. She watched as their bleak, faded colors turned from suspicion to shared, guarded commiseration.  Loka took a breath of crisp, wet night air.

"[i]Firqah![/i]" she called, sharply, "What is it?  Why are we stopped?  Why are they gathered here?"