Jarmok watched the sun slide beneath the westwall, as he has come to refer, if only to himself, to the mountains to the west of Threshold. Mahiya is surely the most gifted of artists. He mused as he watched the hue-splotched sky deepen from its native cyan through rose to thick violet and beyond. He watched the stars come alive, filtered through high tendrils of cloud and reflected in the lights that winked at him from the streets and through the windows of the village below.
A cool mountain air carried the scent of Sythus and the sounds of tree frogs racketed an otherwise silent evening. He wondered idly what tonight's sleep will bring him; he wondered sullenly where he would awaken in the morning...
At last, the night in full swing, he gathered his thick, dark, woolen Sythus cloak and sprang down from his porch. Kit had mentioned that she wanted to speak at the stump, but he had neglected to find out exactly when. Hopefully earlier rather than later; or very late, for that matter.
Bounding down the hillside into Threshold he wrapped himself deep in his cloak and hurried across the Rosewalk (I think) to the Stump. Something was amiss this night...there were too many people.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
Approaching the Stump he cracked open the door and slid inside, closing the door quietly behind him. The noise was deafening; a myriad of scents assailed him: meat roasting, smoke from pipes, perfumes, bread. He peered through the many pairs of eyes searching for his fellows. Laren's voice carried over the conversation in the Stump, "...Those things were GUH-Ross!!" Jamok smiled to himself, For such a small person, Laren's voice certainly carries far enough.
One of the innkeepers, Jarmok couldn't distinguish between the two, emerged from behind the bar bearing three over-sized tankards of ale - that was a drink that Mercer had introduced Jarmok to over Venric; it appeared to be an acquired taste that Jarmok was just now becomming used to, though it required some kind of spiced meat to be truly enjoyed.
The innkeeper carried the drinks over to a corner of the inn where Jarmok at last espied Kit, Maal - the seemingly honorable and strikingly blunt wildlander, and Laren - whom Jarmok had yet to understand, but as secretive as this diminutive fellow seemed, Jarmok sensed no directed animosity from him, and so thought that he was likely as much in need of help as anyone.
This must be the time. Stealing a quick glance at the inn's patrons, all seemed innocuous enough; Jarmok threaded his way over to the corner table and took up a seat against one of the walls, nodding to the three freinds sitting there and glancing again around the room.
"Drink?" He requested of the small inkeeper, indicating the frothing tankards that had just been set down. "And vennison, spicey?"
"Could I get another milk?" Kit piped in.
