Part of the wagon ride is smooth, but the horses neigh as if they have colic, so the wagoner ceases, urging the pair to stretch their legs. Xirna appraises the wagon's top mounted with snow. She smiles at Mikah's mittens, nudging them in Bedivere's face.
"You enjoy the snow?"
"It is a show," she says.
"I fear frost bite," he says.
"You should fear nothing, Angel Voice."
"Negative." He groans. That is a deplorable title.
"If we are to call attention to ourselves in the new city, you need a stage name."
"Your beauty is all we need," he quips so she smack his shoulder.
"How about the Tunes Master?"
"Negative."
"Sing...hmm...talented." She caresses her chin. "Your singing will make all the females wet of course."
"Xirna!" He blushes.
"What? How about, Gentle Flute?"
"You are acting preposterous. I can name myself. The singer from Nirmanda."
She agrees that it is perfect. To pass the time, they drink hot cocoa from the thermos, exchanging thoughts about the barren lands they are traveling through, what might be ahead. The nymph is a lovely companion, but he does not aim to get mushy on her. When it seems the wagoner is taking advantage of the break, Bedivere reminds him of the coin payout, and so they carry on.
A sign decrees Boardsboa, eleven kilometers and Bedivere's stomach constricts. Coming home has been one matter, but he is not prepared to begin anew. Yet, he must be. Making others' fancy is survival, an imperative levy to the capitol. Once the wagoner parks his transportation, Bedivere pays him and wishes him a triumphant day. The wagoner is confused but tells them good luck. It is to be expected the setting differs from Nirminda, but what not is to be expected is the population drop.
"Why is there no activity?" Xirna asks. Her coat is not warm enough, she should have layered another.
"Perhaps they are sleeping," he suggests.
"It is ten o clock. Cities like this lack a curfew. Where are the drunks?"
"Should we check in to our lodging?" Most of the budget poured into this stop.
"If we must." She frowns.
Inside the bellhop welcomes them and places their belongings on a trolly. "See you up there."
"Ah yes. We are 215," he says.
The innkeeper provides basic information, but the boils on his face are difficult to ignore. On nearly every syllable he coughs. Not subtle, Xirna rushes upstairs, likely wary of infection.
"Are you alright?" Bedivere asks.
"No. Damn pantheon trying to kill us all." From the back of the check in station, a female fairie with strange blots all over her face begins to speak.
"Father, the pantheon is not trying to kill us." She looks to Bedivere. "Ignore him. There is a plague."
"A plague? In this sector?"
"In the whole Boardsboa territory. Seventy percent of us are gone. The ones who remain..." she trails off. It may be so that the boils are one symptom of a galaxy sized issue.
"Am...What should I do?" As a newcomer he is vulnerable.
"I suggest you take some of these." She forks over some cloth material with strings. She does a demonstration on how to wear it. "But do not worry. The pestilence is gone; the air is not quite agreeable though."
"Okay." He wishes to pry but he is exhausted. Tomorrow. "I will retire now. Thank you." The inn is more rustic than charming but the torches work and it does not smell of asbestos.