As they finished off their drinks, Denaril sifted through a small pouch for the right coins, and while he paid Jolin flipped a large coin of his own in the air--and then catching it, grasped their serving barmaid's hand and placed the coin straight in her palm with a friendly wink. The two made their way out the door, and away from the docks and whole port itself, taking a path out of the way instead of the main trail through the town.
Denaril seemed unusually perturbed and silent--thoughtfully silent, not just his familiar quiet nature--and walked stiffly, always glancing about. Jol wondered what had been going on with the starfarer, that had him so ponderous. There wasn't much, to his knowing, that would unsettle the Emoril so.
"There are some curious things going on, Jolin, and even I'm not sure what they are," Denaril said with a frump on his face. "You've heard the tales of the Falinam, we all have. I've seen them on a few occasions, which is more than most men can say with any truth. One can't help but wonder about them, all the stories that have been passed around for so long. They'd always been a revered people, only in recent circles showing themselves more personable."
"Aye, they've always sparked the imaginations of people," Jolin chimed in. "So many a magical story about them, ye never know how much is the truth or isn't." He mused over this for a moment, glancing between his feet and the ground before looking back to his friend. "Them bein' friendly has always been a reassurin' thin' to the people, and brought joy to the kiddies to think that they ever might see one."
"Why do you suppose they'd be here?" the Emoril asked, almost rhetorically--but with a look of true inquisitiveness on his face. "There's no visible need for it, is there? Are there any issues we know of, currently, that require them to be here? Any political reasons, or other calls for their presence?"
Jol thought for a while, as they continued to walk down the quiet trail outside the port, wondering about the direction of their travel on the side. If they head down this way, they'll make . . . Keismir? Just a mark or two down the trail. A fancy place for a sailor type like Shoones Jol, but a fine place for a scholar like Emoril Denaril, that was sure.
"So you're sayin' they're not here for diplomatic reasons, is that it?"
"What I'm saying," Denaril corrected, "is I don't know why they're here." He wrinkled his nose a little, and tugged along his beard, straightening it out. "Not officially."
Young Mertul Treaver arrived at Varn Carpitalun--Peltrao, Golacin's center for Receiving, Delivering and Welcoming--and slinked out of the small, almost bubble shaped transport with his copy of the Varn Trelen; the 'Big Book of Welcoming', as he and the other Mertuls liked to call it. He made is way off to a small, side room of the very large, looming complex of a building, checking again to be sure the Big Book was securely fastened together. The book itself was taller than he was wide, and almost as large in width and depth--though this was more difficult to tell under the plain, drooping robes that covered his figure.
As he pressed his side against the entrance door of the cabin-like portion of the building, coddling the Book, Treaver almost fell backwards, the door seeming to have disappeared behind him. The amateur Receiver straightened himself up, and turned around to face Gamiret--a Welcomer and Treaver's superior at the Carpitalun--who allowed the Mertul through, and closed the door behind him. "I don't know how they let someone as small as you lug that thing around," Gamiret said with a smile. "Or for that matter, how you got to be so small at your age. Come on, get that thing off your chest . . . "