1st Draft Fridays - A Fistful of ... (#6)

Salles, en route to Saf

The mountain pass that's Salles's best land-based entrance isn't used much. At least, it wasn't, not when Aidan lived there.

Now, there's a collection of terrified people trudging away from Salles, towards Dwaline-Het or Breidentel that are essentially on the way to Grehafen. These people must be fleeing there, to the dwarves or elves, because Grehafen certainly hasn't seen an influx.

Or maybe the flood of refugees just haven't reached there yet? There were those tracks, more than he usually saw, though nothing like the crowd he and Dakadza are having to navigate now.

His legs ache. Riding would have been conspicuous, so he and Dakadza are traveling on foot, with two oxen pulling a covered wagon, as if they're peddlers.

People glance towards him and away, oh so nervous that whatever's driven them to flee Salles is part of why the refugees look to be trusting non-humans over their own kind.

"I thought Salles had dwarves," Dakadza comments quietly.

Aidan stiffens, scans the crowd, but the montai is correct: there should be dwarves among the refugees.

There aren't.

The implications twist his stomach. Dwarves have long lived in Salles, particularly in and around the capital of Saf, but they've always been second-class citizens, to the point that the castle and other noble areas had spells in the walls that would harm dwarves who entered. Aidan's father had been quietly having those spells unworked, discreetly, a little at a time, out of his own pocket...

And now Aidan's father is gone.

Aidan hopes the dwarves of the city have just taken refuge in gangside, rather than getting rounded up and burned to death as his grandmother's father had once done.

The path is a mountain pass, so it's often narrow or craiggy, not fit for anything but moving on, but there are sections fit for camps. They're settling into one for the night, minding their own business and politely failing to peddle their wares on the refugees here.

Their wagon got some wary looks at first, but as they settle into camp and keep being respectful, the refugees seem more relieved than anything else. Perhaps because he and Dakadza are armed? It's no more than any wandering peddler might carry to protect from wolves and smalltime bandits, though.

Magic catches his attention.

Aidan keeps walking but lets his awareness out, seeking the source. Dakadza responds similarly.

The magic flares a little and stays there, just long enough for him to lock gazes with a calm man with age-whitened hair and stooped back, who then lets his magic drop.

A hello, an invitation to converse.

Aidan glances to Dakadza. It doesn't feel like a trap, but he has far more experience with nobility than he does fellow mages.

The man has children surrounding him. His grandchildren? It could be effort to seem non-threatening, or even a threat to the children if they don't comply.

Dakadza shakes his head, ever so slightly, then heads over, himself.

Aidan heeds him, but he keeps a wary eye on the mage and his interactions with the children he's with, magic ready to intervene, if warranted. Just in case.