I may have been overtired the other night, but I am sure Cicho is quite used to hearing very much worse than my petty complaints, and much more varied fare than the barman in Thesos, certainly. After listening to all of my whining about paperwork and dusty remains, the poor respect that youngsters have for the traditional arts, and the desperate shortage of beige lining, I think he can be forgiven for closing the bar against my protests and offering to walk me home. My memory is hazy but I am sure of one thing; when I arrived home my mood was so much lighter, and I was really looking forward to the morning (no, I never learn).
The walk is only short, but in the warm autumn night he told me of a wondrous place where the weather is sunny as often as it rains, the honey is always fresh and the aromatic plants are so bitter they would make a zoraï crack her mask. In this place water runs, noisy and bright, across the top of the bark. Sap bubbles, hissing and pungent, through the grass wherever you tread.
My dear grandfather used to say such things too, so perhaps I am getting things muddled, but then again my grandfather only ever talked of the kitin with horror. The land Cicho told me of seems to be revered by the kitin. They walk there in silence and touch no creature, forage for nothing, will not so much as
glance at a homin. But that's not all! [size=-2]There are no Kami, no Karavan there![/size] "Unbelievable!" I said (quietly, I swear!) but he just looked at me and smiled a wry smile.
It sounds like a story for your grandchildren, doesn't it? But what do you think you would do if you stumbled upon someplace like this? Put yourself in this Ranger's place, would you even tell your best friennn... err ... G'bye
*click*
