The ride into town on the back of the teamster’s well fortified wagon is bumpy but restful for the Carvalho’s. Niam and Lornel gradually fall away into the distance and around the hillocks. Enoch rides quietly, lost in his thoughts. Each group drifts to their natural polarity as they come closer to Zroas.
As you enter the Market Gate of Zroas, the chaos of the wagons, horses, merchants, beggars, citizens, dogs, and the general mill of life suffuses your systems like a potion. The warmth of safety and something deeper, some basic human need for others, seizes you and you’ve never been so happy to be any place before.
As you hop off the teamster’s wagon, you notice some changes about the people here that seem different, somehow. The Market Gate has always been a melting pot of all the people of Mournra but you’re seeing more than the fair share of golaunts in the crowds. You notice that people are avoiding them as opposed to the other way around. Usually, golaunts keep to themselves and they end up avoiding the more civilized and numerous races. These savages are acting entitled, possessive. Almost as if they were the ones in charge.
Still, it does not damper the feeling of coming home that comes over you or the feeling of safe refuge. You make your way to the smaller gate door, where foot traffic comes and goes into Zroas, and the guard stops you. The blue livery is familiar as the tabard of Zroas for the guards but the unkempt manner in which it is worn, and the dirty stains down the side, seem at odds with your memories.