Far From Home, But Always Near

While he had denied the meat offered by the hag, Tarmen wondered if there had still been some sort of trickery used on him.
‘Son of the dark lands’, that phrase had struck him differently. That was homeland slang, being from ‘the dark lands’. Maybe all of the trade had allowed such information to be traded, but it bothered him to hear it all the same.
He did not like the hag, especially with her otherwise irritating, but harmless mystic mojo.
Besides that nagging discomfort, he had found the trip rather pleasant. With guides, he could afford to sightsee and by the Gods was he glad of it. If he could sneak away or somehow convince Zane to allow it, he definitely wanted to see what the ruins held. He doubted there were any lost valuables, given the tribes here had probably searched them generations ago, but it had been so long since he had been on any kind of ruin crawl that it wouldn’t matter.
When it came to the whistles of the natives, he made a mental note of them as best as he could. He doubted he would ever learn their full meaning, but he liked how they sounded. Reminded him of the calls his crew would make when in some long buried temple.
Despite these reminders, he found the ache he felt before more distant. Something about the mountains comforted that longing.
When the group arrived, he found more of that odd comfort. The mountain people could visually pass as an offshoot of his own, which peaked his interest at the diplomatic brawls Zane had mentioned.
Sitting in front of what he presumed to be one of their leaders, Tarmen kept a close eye on the man wearing their own armor and wondered if it would be brought up.
He glanced to Zane, unsure of who would start.

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