Harlag turns to face the approaching gentleman, returning a smaller but gracious smile of his own.
“I’m on a pilgrimage, friend!”
He tugs lightly at the strap of his pack. While some who take holy journeys throw themselves to the mercy of others, carrying nothing but their clothes and their faith, this concept was utterly unknown to Harlag. He’d taken with him cookware, and a hatchet, a tinderbox- even a small bedroll and hide tent, with a single pole to support it upon. These things hung from his bag, or filled it fit to burst in the case of his little cauldron and frying pan.
The market was a wonder of a sight, but the chapel in this city was his destination. With a nod towards the walls, he asks the gentleman-
“Please forgive me for bein’ in such a rush, but can you tell me which streets lead to the church?”
With those directions recounted, Harlag thanks the well-dressed man graciously and heads into the city, his eyes upon the brilliant sights and his mind in the sanctity of stone.
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