21

A misty morning greets you the next day. It's difficult to drum up enthusiasm about rejoining the path on such a gloomy day, but you soldier on. If I didn't want gray weather, I shouldn't live in Brenton. As if you ever had a choice to live elsewhere.

The road is winding and dusty but in good repair as you get closer to the coastal lands where Ruffino's duchy begins. The traffic increases as well. Whereas yesterday you commonly crossed paths with others a few times an hour, now you rarely lose sight of another human soul for more than a few minutes.

The passers-by have a greater air of prosperity as well, from the vendors of baubles and silks trotting by in their carriages to the heralded knights strutting along the road in twos and threes. You must look quite the urchin because, completely unsolicited, you are gifted bits of rolls and fruit by kindly-faced travelers as you plod your way through the day.

You polish off a bun and lick your dirty fingers. Just imagine how well fed you'd be if you actually stopped to beg. It's comforting to know there's another career open to you if foolery goes awry.

Onward