A pale and cloudy dawn over Mercia puts one wise of coming spring rain. Peasants emerge from thatch huts, clothed in rags and clutching what little gold they can muster, making their way to the still-sleepy market. Smoke is rising from the chimneys of tiny inns as breakfasts of ham and porridge is being prepared, with colorful patrons groggily partaking in the meal. Justiciars and learned men dot the road from the abbey to Celnaer, seeking audience with the local lord. A young woman in a flax cowl wandered among them, seeming quite aimless, quietly observing her surroundings. In Celnaer Manor, the lord is still asleep in a silken bed. Hooded men wander through his dungeon, glancing in at the various prisoners held there to see if any have died in the night. The distant hides of the wealthy begin to rouse with the work of thralls and leisurely thegns. Some of these slaves, mostly very young men and women, pick up their carts or the leather leads on their livestock and tote them into market to make coin for their masters. One such is an auburn-haired girl clutching a fat hen, with a young hound nipping at her ankles as she walked along the Churn.