[h3]Jair son of Rensar[/h3]
[hr]
The road to Ealdormuda wound down from the high ridges in long, dust-bitten turns, its path basking with the day’s hot sun. By the time Jair reached the harbor’s edge, the scent of the sea was heavy in the air, the shipyards were visible, he had not been near the sea in many years now. For a moment he remained still as he looked onto the ever expanding and neverending sight of the sea. Soon enough his arrival into town did not go unnoticed, a lone rider of the Prathmava drew eyes wherever he went and the white headband with blue embroidery marked him plain as one of Tridanu’s steppe folk. He met the stares with the same stoic gaze he’d worn half his life.

Yade’s hooves clicked against the cobbles, her breath rising in pale wisps. She tossed her head once and gave a low, impatient snort.

“I know,” Jair murmured, “Too many walls.”

The mare huffed again, Jair answered with a faint smirk, the pair rode on through the town past dozens of curious and perhaps suspicious glares until they arrived to the docks.

Two locals sat on a bench by the roadside, pipes glowing dimly in the dark. Dockmen by the look of them, their rough hands, oil-stained tunics and faces weathered by salt were dead giveaways. Their talk dwindled as the rider approached and Jair halted Yade a few paces off and leaned slightly in his saddle.

“You’ve seen strangers come through lately?” His tone was leveled but courteous, as much as a lone steppe rider could be, “Not sailors... travelers. The kind who don’t linger long.”

The older man took his pipe from his mouth and squinted up at him, “Strangers, aye. Plenty of ’em since the storms eased. You’ll find your sort inside the inn up a-ways round that corner there,” he said, jerking the stem of his pipe toward the harbor inn. His companion exhaled a slow ribbon of smoke and muttered something that drew a crooked grin from the first.

Jair inclined his head in a silent thanks and nudged Yade forward. Behind him, the two resumed their murmured talk.

The rider guided his mare around the corner, stopping where the shadows from the eaves fell deep. He dismounted without tying her. Yade shifted, her tail flicking once as she looked toward the inn door.

“Patience,” he said softly, running a gloved hand down her neck. She whickered and once more he felt the echo of her thought, wordless prod of amusement that made him shake his head.

He stayed there a while, watching the lantern-lit windows, the silhouettes passing inside. The call of treasure and Turakindi ruins had reached far, but it was the draw of something else that held him, the hope, however faint that somewhere in the bones of the past, a man might find absolution. But habit born of years on the road urged caution; walk into a den of unknown blades and tongues and you might not walk out again.

Yade stamped once, as if in agreement.

After a time, two travelers passed him on their way into the inn. One was a tall man in foreign leathers and another cloaked figure whose gait seemed that of someone who was of a commanding stature. They vanished through the door and the hum of voices rose briefly to greet them. Jair exhaled, swung the reins loosely in his hand, and gave Yade one last look.

“Wait here,” he told her. She met his gaze, ears twitching once as she then lowered her head in understanding.

With that, Jair stepped from the street wall into the inn’s light, the scent of salt and smoke following him through the door. The inn was heavy with smoke and the smell of old ale. Jair’s eyes adjusted quickly to the dim lamplight, picking out faces along the rows of chairs and tables as the noise of laughter and talk dulled to a murmur when the door closed behind him.

It wasn’t hard to find the ones he sought. A winged woman with amber hair sat with a Firindorian of striking grace, a pair of men, one foreign and one scarred and, most peculiar of all, a scale-skinned traveler whose voice hissed softly as he finished speaking. The others listened with curiosity rather than fear. That told Jair enough.

He lingered for a moment by the door, brushing rain from his cloak before stepping forward. His boots made little sound on the wood as he crossed the floor and stopped a respectful distance from the table.

“Sounds like you already have one guide,” he said, his voice even as his gaze flicked briefly toward the man who had called himelf Vashra, then to the rest of the company. “I won’t pretend to know all of Morgador… but I’ve ridden near every other corner of this realm once or twice, at least. If you’re heading into mountains or ruins, you’ll want a man who’s done more than follow roads.”

He rested one hand lightly on the back of a vacant chair, the other on his belt where the worn leather met the hilt of a well-traveled blade. “Jair, from the steppe lands,” he added simply, "my mare waits outside.”