Nesdurand -

And somewhere, on a road that has no map, a lantern flickers — patiently, impossibly — waiting for the next time it is needed.

But every few decades, when the river ran low and the drowned bells of the lower city could be heard ringing on their own, a traveler would appear at the North Gate. Gray-eyed, soft-spoken, carrying no weapon but a long walking staff. They would ask for bread, listen to the news of the realm, and leave before dawn. nesdurand