She sat beneath the stars alone, watching sparks from the campfire rise as though to meet them.
Her strange new companion had not yet returned from what she suspected was a patrol of the wild surrounds, and she found she could not still her mind, though she knew this time was not the same as what had happened on the path with her teacher, and she made every effort to ease herself with that logic.
She breathed out and took a small notebook from her dress bag. It was bound with a finely woven cover made of little river reeds. They had a curious cross-hatched, wooden-like finish thanks to the craftsmanship of the object's maker. A tiny vial of ink and a quill, too, were produced.
Opening the new book to the first page, she wrote in the language and letterings of her kindred. The awkwardness of that stark blank paper drove her to caution, the letters printed with a carefulness so gentle it may to an onlooker have seemed eerie.
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"The vine I wear in my braids is dead, brittle, and I had cut off all the leaves. But tomorrow, it may be that I should seek one red leaf to thread, for, now, I am not alone. To feel afraid and safe both at once is not something easy to dismiss, so I will dwell on it further in the days to come.
Soon I will recover my teacher's silver book-pin from the man who had taken it. Such strange eyes he had, that I begin to question if I ever truly saw him at all. It becomes less easy to recall his face each time I try. I have never known such a lapse, and I begin to feel as if there is something more sinister at play. I fear for my new companion, yet I must persist in what I will learn from this; there is no other path for me yet, until this is done and I can wear my teacher's silver pin in my hair alongside less morbid blooms.
I wonder if it is the same for my companion, if he, too, is compelled not so by the direction he travels, but only by beckoning of the road.
He is not reckless, it is something else."
