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The Merry Sow was not particularly festive this evening. Half of it's name was somewhat true, fat farmers lounging about regaling anyone who would listen with tales of relative excitement. The stories felt tired, retold and reworked a thousand times for maximum effect, growing and changing each time.

For all their efforts, the stories were still dull. Farmer's stories, who's squash was the biggest this year, who had the most tragic accident or disease. It was all dull, like the life here - slow and unchanging. Folk tried to make it out as lively, but they were stretching. Reaching for anything that didn't involve weather and crops and dirt and animals.

As such, Singer found herself at the center of much unwanted attention. It wasn't that she was worried about secrecy - she just had no interest in the farmer's poor attempts to lure her into their hay stuffed beds. Worse still was their stunted, hay stuffed conversation and their weak alcohol. The beer tasted like water that had perhaps, at one point, had a moldy bread crust soaked in it. When the third free tankard was placed on her table, the simpleminded serving girl telling her who to direct her thanks to, Singer abandoned decorum and ignored it.

Restless and irritable, she flexed the fingers of her gloved hand, a nervous gesture she found herself repeating often in the absence of Harry. The tavern was old-fashioned, simple. They had insisted she leave her companion outside, even when she had last allowed the repeated insult enough times to correct them. In Tura, the Thuss and their companions were treated with respect and politeness.

If her animal companion had been denied entrance there, it would be regarded as a personal and political snub. She was employed in the Overmage's personal guard, and was used to the privileges that came with it.

Here, she doubted the townsfolk had ever seen a Thuss before. They hadn't recognized her by her dress, the standard of the Overmages embroidered in bright, friendly colors on her shoulder. Even the most obvious indication of her race, Harry, was disregarded as a pet.

The hawk was safe, she knew. The tavern owner had, by way of apology, offered to give him room in the stables. It was an insult - as if she herself had been told to sleep amongst the horses and cows - but by that point she was too tired, irritated, and exasperated to argue.

Another tankard of ale arrived, this one carried by the actual would-be suitor. One glance up at him and Singer judged him to be the most obnoxious sort of tavern regular. He intended to be the cavalier, to win her over after everyone else had failed. The sort that couldn't take a hint. In his younger days, the man might have been passing attractive. Years of nightly revelry at the Sow had rendered his belly soft and round in opposition to his farmer's arms. His face bore scars here and there from pox. Singer was disgusted.

She'd had enough. Just as she was about to rise, gather her things, and simply forgo the tavern's insulting attempts at hospitality, another man settled in at her table. The would-be suitor was warned off with a glance from the newcomer. Singer practically snarled her displeasure at the man.

"I'm not here to propose," The man held up his hands placatingly. She hadn't seen him come into the tavern, but suspected that he had been in at least several times before. The farmers ignored him, did not gossip or stare as she was aware they would with a newcomer. "I just thought you might like some civilized company - to keep the hounds away."

He was short of stature. Singer suspected that she would stand taller than he if both rose to their feet and compared. Slender, his clothes did not reveal any stoutness of frame that would indicate farming. His fingers were gloved in well-fitting doeskin. While Singer couldn't place a trade to him, nor did she care to try, she suspected he was not a farmer.

"I do not need a yapping fox to chase away the hounds." She sneered. The man did not relent.

"I suppose not." He laughed, fingers curling on the table before one arm bent up at the elbow. He rested his chin on his hand. A thin smile traced his dark features, and singer noticed that he was handsome. She felt no attraction to his race - whatever it was. His skin was darker, suggesting ancestry from the other side of the Wilds. "But you may want a place to lodge that will treat you with the respect that a Hand of the Overmages deserves."

The hand not supporting his bearded chin indicated her shoulder-worn insignia. A second finger joined the one he was pointing with, and he touched his brow, dropping his eyes in respect. The gesture was casual, but the most respectful one she'd gotten since arriving in Mezzan. She studied the part in his dark, wildly curly hair for a long moment before the proper acknowledgement formed on her lips. It was more instinct than thought.

"Raise your eyes, Citizen." She said, distracted.

What would a Turan citizen be doing out here so close to the wild, and in such a plain place? She suspected he was a merchant or a swindler. She cared not, his politeness making whatever he was forgivable in the wake of recent outrages. However, she could see through his intention. "Are you proposing I lodge with you?"

As he raised his eyes again to meet hers, he shook his head. "It would be indecorous for a Thuss woman to home with a man of marriageable age."

"This is the truth. What was your offer, then?" Singer was growing impatient, despite his manners. He felt as if he were toying with her somehow, an act that could be incredibly dangerous given her mood.

"There is a man - a Turan citizen once - who lives just out of town. It seems he moved here long ago." Dark eyes sparkled behind a mess of hair that was curling it's way free from it's bindings. "I suspect he would lodge you with proper decorum. Your companion would certainly not have to sleep in some horse stall."

Singer hesitated. Respect and proper treatment would be a blessing, certainly. By the man's description, the former citizen must be older if he moved long ago to this place. She suspected, however, some form of a catch. Friendly though this man was, he did not seem the sort to rush blindly to a stranger's aid without some sort of personal incentive.

"Why do you tell me of this?" She asked, warily.

The man smiled again. His teeth where white and whole against his dark gums. "I can't stand to see a Hand of the Overmages mistreated."

Singer suspected otherwise, but as he had not indicated any interest in her favors, rather than her wellbeing, she let it go.

"Very well then, fox." She did not bother asking his name. It was unimportant. "I shall take your advice." Rising, she placed her gloved hand over her collarbone on the left side, a return gesture of respect for someone of lower status. He seemed surprised, but did not say anything further. Instead, he gathered up her untouched tankards of beer as she left.

---

He watched her go, settling in with the offerings of beer that hopeful patrons had made to her. After a sip, he had no question as to why the Thuss woman had been in such a temper. It was a downright sin to call it beer. Disgusting would be a the best name for it, he supposed, but free was free.

Her shadow crossed in front of the thick windows, warped and wavering from imperfections in the cheap glass. To some extent, he was glad that the locals had accepted his presence. They left him be, and no longer whispered about what he could possibly be. Their lack of manners did not bother him in the least, or else he'd have long ago gone screaming into the Wild. Farmers got desperate for new things.

Spreading rumors about himself had been easy. Once his mystery was gone, story wound out to anyone who'd hear, they more or less ignored him. Which meant he could listen. Weeks of the same stories had worn on his patience. He'd begun to doubt his own research and suspicions.

Sitting in a shoddy, boring tavern for five long weeks, he'd wondered if insanity wouldn't be more entertaining. With his luck, it would be exactly the same.

It had all changed when at last he'd laid eyes on the town's most reclusive of inhabitants. At last he'd come into town, decided to have a drink with the folk. Conlan, they'd told him the man's name was. He suspected otherwise. Watching the man's movements, he knew better than to think him a farmer.

He himself hadn't escaped the older man's notice. Green eyes had picked him suspiciously right out of the crowd he was losing at cards to. He'd watched Conlan ask around about him, secure that he would get the same rumors that he himself had laid to wait for this occasion.

But even observation had revealed nothing concrete. He couldn't prove anything. The townsfolk liked Conlan, linking his self imposed seclusion to something in the man's past. He could never get a clear answer on the matter.

Instead, he had laid a trap, to flush Conlan's true nature out at last. Smiling, he finished the last of his awful drink.

It was best when they ran, Guilty.

---

He was humming. Attempting to keep his spirits up, his mind reworked an old tune as he re-packed the earth floor fo his cottage, damp and dirty work. With a basin of water to one side he smoothed displaced dirt over clawmarks in the floor, then applied water to it to create a smooth mud surface that would dry hard.

It was tedious work. The alchemist did it without complaint,the knees of his pants turning more brown with each passing second. He'd restored the place to order - what little there was to disturb set right again. Pushed the bed back into place and swept the fireplace clean. He kept very little else. His lone blanket had been returned to the straw mattress, and a good wash had restored his sheets some. He suspected that he could have them re-sewn with minimal effort.

Thenotay had taken leave of the house, wandering into the surrounding fields. He shard feet would leave impressions in the mending floor which would then need to be re-mended. He had thought it best to avoid accidents - after all, the cottage had very little room spare with the horse-sized chimera in occupancy.

A voice summoned him from his half-dreaming composition of music, and Conlan startled.

"Citizen!" The voice was female, demanding.

Hesitantly, Conlan rose to his feet. I thad been some time since that title had been used on him, but it was commonly known that he had moved here from Tura. Seizing a rag, he wiped his hands, rolling down his sleeves as he stepped out of the cottage.

"Not any more..." He started to correct, then stopped abruptly. Just outside, a woman stood imperiously. On her fist was a dark hawk, regarding him with an intelligence that surpassed animal. A Thuss. He froze, his eyes finding the Overmage's mark on her shoulder.

---

Singer eyed the man suspiciously. His home was a nothing place - a one room hovel built cheaply of mud and brick. He was frozen stupidly in it's doorway, mud smeared on his knees and his face from absent touches as he worked. She suspected that her 'benefactor' had in fact been playing some sort of joke.

"Welcome, Turan traveler." HE dropped his eyes suddenly, raising his first two fingers to his brow. "I am honored to recieve a Lady Hunter of the Thuss, respected Hands of our Overmages." The greeting sounded rusty, out of date, but it was proper and respectful. Belated, she supposed, was better than nothing.

"Raise your eyes, Citizen." She stepped forward. This man was properly humbled by her presence. His salt and pepper hair was neatly trimmed short, he was mid-sized. Overall, she would not have thought him to stand out in a crowd. She wondered what had taken him away from the capital and decided that for today, she was beyond caring. She did not correct his greeting - All Thuss were ladies now, addressed only by title. "I seek lodgings for the evening and have not, so far, found an honorable reception."

She didn't like the idea of staying here, but she was here now. She disliked the thought of returning to the Merry Sow and the Fox even more At least, she supposed, this man was respectful.

"Of course my home is open for your use." He looked up at last, the fading sunlight of evening catching the green in his eyes and setting it aglow. He seemed nervous, but sincere. Singer was accustomed to nervous receptions. Her race was rumored to be fierce and determined. Secretive, efficient and - when the need arose - lethal.