In approximately twenty to twenty-two days, we should arrive in Dunskar.
Assuming nothing catches fire.
Assuming nobody gets arrested.
Assuming Spathian remains within visible range of reality.
These assumptions may be optimistic.
According to Ryn, our timing should be perfect.
The auction will begin shortly after our arrival.
Or perhaps shortly before.
Merchant schedules appear to function through some mysterious system only merchants understand.
Before reaching Dunskar, however, we must stop at a place called Second Chance Inn.
Apparently Ryn paid an absurd amount of money to have something delivered there through an express courier service from Tailwind.
The item is apparently important.
More importantly—
it is important to one of Ryn's plans.
I do not know what the item is.
I do not know what the plan is.
I only know that Ryn smiled when discussing it.
That has rarely improved my circumstances.
Currently we are still in Vaultreach.
Waiting.
Specifically, waiting for Spathian.
Who disappeared again.
Ryn claims he will return eventually.
I admire her confidence.
While waiting, I found myself observing Old Shard.
This turned out to be surprisingly educational.
I have spent enough time with him to realize something important.
Old Shard does not resemble a famous appraiser.
Nor does he resemble a retired explorer.
Or a respected shop owner.
I mean this as respectfully as possible.
Unfortunately, respect can only accomplish so much.
He resembles an unusually successful scavenger.
Or perhaps a very experienced homeless man.
One with strong opinions regarding artifact preservation.
And surprisingly accurate historical knowledge.
Old Shard is short.
Broad.
Covered in equipment.
His beard reaches nearly to his chest.
His travel coat contains so many patches that I am no longer certain which parts are original.
Every visible surface appears occupied by something.
Relics.
Broken artifacts.
Ancient keys.
Expedition tokens.
Small crystals.
Metal fragments.
Objects I cannot identify.
Objects I suspect nobody can identify.
At one point I noticed what appeared to be a door handle hanging from his belt.
I chose not to ask.
Experience has taught me that asking questions around collectors often creates additional questions.
His scent is equally distinctive.
Dust.
Old books.
Dry wood.
Ancient stone.
Faded ink.
Copper.
A small amount of cheap alcohol.
Campfire smoke.
Desert spices.
The combined result feels less like a person and more like an archaeological site.
Or perhaps an expedition that became trapped inside a coat.
Most surprising of all is the backpack.
The backpack is enormous.
Terrifyingly enormous.
I have seen merchants transport fewer possessions while relocating entire businesses.
According to Old Shard, every item inside serves a purpose.
According to Ryn, this is nonsense.
Their disagreement appears longstanding.
Particularly regarding a large iron cauldron currently hanging from the side of the pack.
The cauldron concerns Ryn greatly.
"Why are you bringing that?"
Old Shard looked offended.
"Because it's important."
"For what?"
"For situations."
"What situations?"
"Important situations."
This answer did not satisfy Ryn.
Nor me.
Several minutes later she tried again.
"We aren't crossing the Crimson Expanse."
"No."
"We aren't entering wilderness for months."
"No."
"There will be inns."
"Probably."
"There will be towns."
"Hopefully."
"There will be food."
"Most likely."
Ryn stared.
Old Shard stared back.
Then he adjusted the cauldron protectively.
The discussion ended without resolution.
Personally, I suspect the cauldron may be an artifact.
I have no evidence supporting this theory.
Other than the fact that nobody would willingly carry a cauldron this far.
Then again—
I once traveled with a man who collected artifact spoons.
My standards may have shifted.
As I watched Old Shard reorganize his equipment for what felt like the seventeenth time, another thought occurred to me.
His backpack does not resemble luggage.
It resembles preparation.
Not preparation for the journey.
Preparation for possibilities.
Every pouch.
Every tool.
Every strange object.
Every questionable decision.
Together they form a collection of solutions.
Solutions to problems that may never happen.
Perhaps that is what old explorers eventually become.
Not stronger.
Not wiser.
Simply harder to surprise.
The thought was interrupted by a familiar voice.
"Ah."
Ryn stood.
Slowly.
Dangerously.
I followed her gaze.
And immediately understood.
Spathian had returned.
Unfortunately for him, he appeared entirely unaware that he was late.
He was smiling.
Which was a mistake.
"Hello everyone."
A pause.
"Interesting fact."
Another pause.
"I may have found—"
Ryn grabbed his ear.
The rest of the sentence disappeared.
"OW."
"Where were you?"
"Research."
"You vanished."
"Temporarily."
"You disappeared for three hours."
"I was very productive."
Ryn continued dragging him closer.
Spathian continued protesting.
Neither appeared surprised by this arrangement.
Old Shard watched thoughtfully.
Then nodded.
"Good technique."
"I know," said Ryn.
I am beginning to suspect that some relationships eventually evolve beyond conversation.
Into routines.
Predictable.
Comfortable.
And strangely reassuring.
Soon we will leave Vaultreach.
Soon we will begin the road to Dunskar.
Ryn is planning something.
Old Shard is carrying a suspicious cauldron.
Spathian has already disappeared once.
And we have not even left the city yet.
For some reason—
I do not think the next twenty days will be uneventful. 🌙
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