Early in the morning, as promised, Baron Surdemer had passed through Myrkentown's gates and found his way to the Meetinghouse; as promised, Chairwoman Kaczmarek had been there to meet him.
The journey is remarkable only for the traffic they pass, carts and packhorses heading north towards Myrkentown; the Baron makes polite conversation, plying the Chairwoman with questions on more-or-less neutral topics - the spring planting, her hopes for a better harvest, whether she anticipates a return to something like prosperity now the roads are open again. No mention of the Governor, of last summer's sickness, of the near-absent Council.
By midmorning they have reached Fitchton, where Surdemer suggests a brief pause to rest the horses and stretch their own legs; not for too long, however, as they still have the climb into the mountains ahead of them.
As the Spring sun reaches its zenith they reach the end of the road - or of the dirt track which serves as the road for most of the way back towards Myrkentown. The air is still cold up here, the steep valley funneling the wind into their faces, patches of snow still clinging to the shaded slopes and hollows that the sun has not yet touched. Ahead of them stretches Burel's road of sorcerously-fused slabs, ruddy as if soaked in old blood. Surdemer reins in his horse and dismounts to take a closer look, stooping to run his hand over the seamless stone.
His palm comes away with a layer of fine crimson grit, and he frowns slightly as he dusts his hands against one another and gazes towards the pass itself; it coats the road, stains the earth to either side, speckles the lingering drifts of snow - coarse sand, gravel, with a few larger, angular fragments here and there. The roadsides are bare dirt, shallow furrows scoured into the earth parallel with the road. A moment's further inspection and he is apparently satisfied, climbing back up into his saddle.
"Curious. Onwards, Chairwoman?"