A winged boy awoke in a pit of clay some nights ago. A young hat-headed world-wandering man sought shelter this morning. A boy of martial prowess came to this outpost for honor and adventure. A well tested mercenary sat at a crooked table in the newly fashioned blockhouse. A red headed girl from a family of hewers, the remainder of the first of many family trees to fall in this newborn war, pulled herself to the table. 

Around her were unfamiliar faces from far away places. Men of different races, very different from her own. Even the room felt utterly foreign; a room well allotted space yet struggling to allow for breathing room, racks of drawers filled with papers at her back, an oversized table at her stomach, hanging over her side pinned to the most distant wall were pages dashed with blipping marks and the names of forests and rivers and farms and cities… Food sat on the table, good looking foods generously stacked atop heavy wooden plates, familiar looking foods like breads and meats. She snuggled her axe into a free area on the table and pulled a platter of roasted ribs closer. As she broke one for herself she spoke.

“Sorry about bein’ late, I don’t mean to be rude or nothin’- Got caught up in a walk… I am Carrie! Carrie Duston of the clan of the axe! We were supposed to be talking about an errand? Did I miss anything?”