There are two places for new arrivals to get their shit sorted, as far as Owen's made note of: the fountain-side inn, and a brick house a couple rows behind it. The owner of the latter seemed like a good lead--might know more about the scrubs, about the breakdown of times and places people came from. He might even corroborate stories about the fountain itself, but it's Owen's luck that he went looking the day the guy decided to take some leave of absence.
I will be away for an indefinite amount of time,, the note read, tacked down under a mug on the dining room table. Nice handwriting, proof of certain supplies existing in the space. Please continue to use the rooms until housing can be arranged for you, and stick with the villagers in case of further emergency. Linens are in the hall closet, maps are in the china cabinet.
At least he'd gained that much, lips twitching at some of the descriptions. Certain kinds of people would appreciate knowing which house grew weed, and Owen would figure out the meaning of wizards written along a row of houses at some later date. In the absence of his desired contact, and probable absence of the welcome-wagon, he'd taken the map and its notes out to the fountain to study, perching on the edge.
He doesn't even hear the man break surface over the splash of the fountain's waters, the voices carrying along the paths. It isn't until he hauls himself up, near to the opposite side of the central pillar, that the movement catches Owen's attention and startles the map out of his hands.
Leaving it in the safety of the dry dirt and grass, he moves around the fountain's edge, hands out in a placating and ready posture. "Whoa there," he says, like treating a person like a spooked horse has ever waylaid a panicked ass-kicking. "You want a hand-up?"
fountain
I will be away for an indefinite amount of time,, the note read, tacked down under a mug on the dining room table. Nice handwriting, proof of certain supplies existing in the space. Please continue to use the rooms until housing can be arranged for you, and stick with the villagers in case of further emergency. Linens are in the hall closet, maps are in the china cabinet.
At least he'd gained that much, lips twitching at some of the descriptions. Certain kinds of people would appreciate knowing which house grew weed, and Owen would figure out the meaning of wizards written along a row of houses at some later date. In the absence of his desired contact, and probable absence of the welcome-wagon, he'd taken the map and its notes out to the fountain to study, perching on the edge.
He doesn't even hear the man break surface over the splash of the fountain's waters, the voices carrying along the paths. It isn't until he hauls himself up, near to the opposite side of the central pillar, that the movement catches Owen's attention and startles the map out of his hands.
Leaving it in the safety of the dry dirt and grass, he moves around the fountain's edge, hands out in a placating and ready posture. "Whoa there," he says, like treating a person like a spooked horse has ever waylaid a panicked ass-kicking. "You want a hand-up?"