[center][h2]Homeward Bound [/h2][/center]

Time: Morning (Fall) 
Location: Fishgrove, Ralda 

[hr]
Fishgrove wasn't like Nyhem, save for the people going about their morning. Among the streets, people cried, walked or stared at the odd sight driving into town. It was a spotted Mao that urged the oxen through the crowded streets and past the gawking audiences. With a sharp jerk of the reins, she guided it to the side where the wagon abruptly stopped. Feline grace showed in her dismount as she rushed to the back and held up a paw-like hand. A bluish one edged out then took Kiseo’s hand, Dyril letting the Mao guide her down onto the street.

Casually, Dyril’s eyes scanned the scene. Like her servant, she wasn’t surprised at the gawking in their direction. It happened in Nyhem and here saw even fewer Elven kin. She coughed to distract her thoughts while she turned to Kiseo. 

“So, this is Fishgrove,” she snatched onto the first subject that entered her mind. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“I believe,” Dyril stepped closer to the nearest building, “we meet the guide here, right?” 

Kiseo nodded then pointed at a tavern. The building’s stone looked wet, weathered by sea and the elementals. Mostly men stepped out from the doors back into the streets. Their rough appearance indicated that the bar served mostly the working class as Dyril felt her spine shiver in discomfort. She had little again rougher men, but her last encounters of them in a bar did not end well. Steeling her nerves, her eyes turned to Kiseo and the Mao’s returned glance reassured her she wouldn’t be alone. 

It fueled her enough to head into the bar. 

Several heads turned toward her, their eyes hard and expressions difficult to read. Quickly as they started, the curiosity faded and most returned to their drinks. Dyril ignored them when she made her way to the barkeeper. She tapped on the counter drawing an elderly man’s attention, his hand paused in wiping a used glass clean. 

A thick accent coated his next words, “Oi, we don’t see many of your kind in Formaroth. What can I git ya?” 

“Directions would be appreciated,” Dyril began to describe the man, revealing he was supposed to be their guide to some land. 

“Yeah, I know the bloke. He’s over there,” the man pointed to a wiry individual sitting off in the corner. 

Dyril thanked the man and turned to face the table, walking toward it. The man lifted his hood to face the half-Elven woman with a slightly drunken smile on his lips.  

“I wasn’t expecting a half-breed would’ve owned the land or I might’ve requested more money.” 

Dyril’s lip curled briefly before she inhaled, her expression cleared of her thoughts. 

“You’re Smith?” 

“Yep…” He took another draft of his ale then set it aside. 

He rose to his feet and indicated to the door, “Shall we head out now?” 

“Yes.”