I am writing this while waiting for Ryn.
Apparently the greatest appraiser on the western continent does not begin accepting visitors immediately after sunrise.
Which means there is waiting.
And whenever there is waiting—
I start observing people.
This morning the common room of the Rusty Spike Inn was unusually crowded.
Hunters.
Merchants.
Guides.
Explorers.
Several people who looked suspiciously like future cautionary tales.
Most drifted in and out without leaving much of an impression.
Then four individuals sat at the table directly across from mine.
I do not know their names.
I never spoke to them.
They probably never noticed me.
But they looked like they belonged inside a story.
So naturally I began taking notes.
The first was a Half-Elf.
Or more specifically—
the sort of Half-Elf that appears moments before a battle begins.
Tall.
Athletic.
Disciplined.
Everything about her seemed organized.
Her silver-white hair was tied neatly behind her head with a large red ribbon.
The brightest color she carried.
Everything else was steel.
Her armor showed signs of use.
Real use.
Not decorative scratches.
Not noble posturing.
The kind of wear created by repeatedly surviving situations that should have killed someone.
A spear rested beside her chair.
An absurdly long spear.
The weapon looked capable of fighting cavalry.
Monsters.
Armies.
Possibly geography itself.
A large round shield leaned against the table.
Its surface carried concentric engravings and elegant patterns.
She reminded me of a city wall.
Not because she looked immovable.
Because she looked like someone who had already decided where she would stand if things went wrong.
The second was an Elder Dragonkin.
Immediately I felt nervous.
Not because he appeared threatening.
Quite the opposite.
He looked calm.
The dangerous kind of calm.
Cream-colored scales.
Golden horns.
Blue eyes.
Long robes in muted turquoise and crimson.
No armor.
No weapons.
Nothing visible suggesting violence.
And yet.
Of the four people present—
he looked the most likely to successfully overthrow a government.
The medals on his chest appeared expensive.
The stitching appeared expensive.
Even his silence appeared expensive.
He spoke very little.
When he did, everyone else listened.
Including me.
And I was not even part of the conversation.
If the Half-Elf resembled a kingdom's sword—
he resembled its crown.
The third person looked far more familiar.
A desert wanderer.
The Deep Red had introduced me to many people like him.
Sun-darkened skin.
Layered desert clothing.
Practical equipment hanging from every available surface.
Water flasks.
Pouches.
Knives.
Tools.
Charms.
Everything carried a purpose.
Nothing appeared decorative.
His face interested me most.
Not because it was remarkable.
Because it wasn't.
The face of someone who had survived.
Repeatedly.
There is a particular expression people acquire after nearly dying enough times.
He possessed it.
The expression that says:
"I have already made every obvious mistake."
Which is perhaps one of the most valuable forms of education.
The final member of the group was a Halfeet.
And immediately reminded me of Spathian.
Unfortunately.
His hair pointed in every possible direction simultaneously.
His enormous glasses magnified his eyes.
His clothing appeared assembled through negotiation rather than design.
Tools hung from belts.
Instruments dangled from straps.
Several mechanical devices occupied space around him without obvious purpose.
Every few minutes he adjusted something.
Measured something.
Recorded something.
Disassembled something.
Then assembled something else.
At one point he nearly dropped a metal instrument into his tea.
He seemed unconcerned.
The others seemed accustomed to this.
I suspect this was not the first time.
What fascinated me most was how different they were.
A knight.
A noble.
A survivor.
An engineer.
And yet they sat together naturally.
Like pieces of a story already halfway finished.
The longer I watched, the more curious I became.
Were they explorers?
Hunters?
Mercenaries?
Scholars?
Friends?
Perhaps all of those simultaneously.
The Heartspike seems to attract people like that.
People whose paths should never cross.
Yet somehow do.
I spent nearly an hour constructing increasingly elaborate theories regarding their backgrounds.
Some were probably incorrect.
Most were probably incorrect.
But it was entertaining.
Eventually the Dragonkin noticed me staring.
I immediately became interested in my notebook instead.
Very intensely interested.
Several minutes later I heard familiar footsteps.
Then another set.
I looked up.
Ryn had arrived.
Spathian was carrying something.
Which usually means trouble.
"We're leaving," Ryn announced.
I closed the journal.
The mysterious group remained where they were.
Still talking.
Still drinking tea.
Still looking like people who belonged inside someone else's story.
Perhaps they do.
As for me—
Ryn has arrived.
Which means I should stop observing strangers and start behaving responsibly.
At least until we reach the appraiser.
After that, all promises become negotiable.
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