Last time that he arrived in the port of Varravar, Aralim’s pet reed cat had run off to lose itself in the winding city streets. Sadly, he did not spot the cat again on his return journey.
It was sunny today. The humidity felt stifling, but Aralim was quite certain it was only his own impressions after acclimatizing to the arid climes north of the Elder Coast or on the now-distant Torn Shore. Aralim moved with purpose, both out of desire to minimize his time moving around on a day like today, but also to hurry their visit to Varravar.
Nill, on the other hand, spent all her time turning around in circles to take in all the sights. The casual use of attire was the biggest difference, of course, but there were many others. Even Nill’s own journeys had only brought her into Raderan lands where the people were of similar complexion to herself. Here on the Elder Coast, the majority of passersby had skin rich and dark as night. Even the men and women from Numa’nakres—all Aralim’s guards plus the Aura—were a different sort of dark complexion. For most of their time in Varravar, Nill and Aralim were the only ones in sight that would be considered light-skinned. Another difference was the language. Though Nill knew the common tongue—or Raderan, as she considered it—they spoke it with a thicker accent here. Their words were like a shaken sack of stones, clicking and grinding all over the place. Aralim’s homeland spoke a language that seemed to have originated from the same roots as theirs, which was how he had learned to speak as the people on the Grey Sea did. But to Nill, she could scarcely understand the hubbub of conversations that ebbed around them.
From the markets of Varravar, Aralim and his soldiers bartered for a month’s worth of hard grains, salted meats, and even purchased a small keg of mead. Grendar, sent ahead to the wide harbour, procured a ship’s captain to take them west. Devran and Nill replaced or repaired a few of their torn clothes—Aralim’s heavy traveller’s cloak didn’t need any work yet, and he was still resistant to the idea of procuring a new lantern staff. He walked with his singed stick just fine for now.
The talk in the waterfront was almost entirely concerned with events across the Grey Sea. Criminals and bandits from every land seemed to be heading toward the Great Isle in search of their dream kingdom. A horde of the lawless were claiming town after city. Aralim wondered if this was the danger seen by Rattar which had called the Grand Mage away from his post at Emperor Tag’na’s right hand. Was this why he had gone to Starath?
Of the strange priest that had once accosted Aralim to beg him for his aid in Varravar, there was no sign. Market guards and port sentries patrolled their normal routes. The mansions and estates of the ruling class seemed untouched in the two-thirds of a year that Aralim had spent north of the city.
Without further ado, Aralim and his guards set sail aboard the Wayward Traverse the very day they arrived in Varravar. It was a pricey transit for a speedy galley. The Captain assured Aralim it would be only fifteen to twenty days to Hawsi, and that his every coin would be well spent on the Traverse. Aralim didn’t mind; it wasn’t his coin anyway.