Because this is a process....

A revision of what I put up yesterday.

(And it still needs work.)

The traveler stopped short of Greenholt Keep's gatehouse, his nose stuck in the air. He sniffed the wind delicately.

Blood? He turned slightly to look back the way he'd come. The rhythmic pounding of horses being ridden too fast thundered across the Springland demesne. A dustcloud heralded the approach of many riders. Their arrival was mere minutes away.

Overhead, the Keeper's chariot peered down on them all, the warmth of the heavenly firebirds straining to warm the Quarters. The flatland wind was chill, the grasses whispering and bending to its will. The traveler shifted the weight of his pack from one shoulder to the next, his eyes on the growing cloud.

"You got an earthwife around here?" he asked with calm congeniality of the nearest guard, a dark-eyed man with lips like a fish. "You may want to get her down here."

Fishlips stared at him stupidly, then finally looked past him and noticed the looming crisis riding toward his keep. He couldn't smell what the traveler could, but it didn't matter. Clearly, something was wrong. And it was entering his jurisdiction.

"Lars," Fishlips said, elbowing his partner. He jerked his chin eastward. "Whassat?"

"Dunno," said Lars, scratching his neck. "Can't be mistpawns. Y'think?"

"If it is, we're all screwed," the traveler observed cheerfully.

"And who are you?" Fishlips asked, bristling.

"Just a rover." The traveler dug into his pack and quickly flashed a cap with a green felt star sewn into it. "See? All official-like."

"Yeah." But Fishlips didn't sound convinced. "You look funny."

"Do I?" The traveler scratched his head. "Well, I come from Winter." He raised a brow. "Am I free to go?"

Fishlips waved him on. The traveler touched his thumb to his forehead and walked into Greenholt Keep.

He had a girl to find.

So here I am. In a place I've never been, to find a girl I've never met, he thought. One who does not know me, and probably does not want to hear what I have to say. He stepped out of the gatehouse, shading his eyes to survey the mass of rickety buildings. He could hear the clamor of a vibrant market to his left; his best place to start would be there.

Avaria of the red hair, Avaria of the grey eyes. The young man turned southwest. Where are you?