The interior of the carriage swayed slightly with each bump in the dirt road, creaking like an old boat facing timid waves. The canvas windows let in small beams of light filtered through the grimy fabric, while the smell of hay, leather, and old sweat formed an uncomfortably familiar atmosphere for Kael.
He sat silently, arms crossed, his cloak gathered beside him, trying to maintain his composure—and his sanity. His eyes were half-closed, not from sleep, but from mental exhaustion.
Because the old man in front, driving the carriage and talking since they left the city, simply... wouldn't shut up.
"So, as I was saying, the secret to making goat cheese that doesn't stink is to rub lemon on the udders. I swear by all the lesser gods! I learned this from a hermit who lived in a tower full of pigeons. And pigeons, mind you, they really know what filth is, you know? Once one landed in my soup and I—"
