Kal sat furthest back, at the corner of the couch, where the firelight flickered over the scars on his face. He was running a whetstone down the length of a narrow dagger, each stroke methodical, drawn with the same rhythmic patience as his breath. Beside him crouched Nion, elbows to knees, carving small notches into the wooden haft of a slender metal spike. Yu had not seen the thing before. It was almost as long as Nion’s forearm; perhaps something from the tents or a piece of violence in the making.
Branwen sat apart. He had dragged one of the heavy armchairs away from its line by the hearth, wedging it into the space between the fire and the wall. There he sat, not opposite the others but further back. He still wore his coat, the thick folds gathered beneath his arms like a makeshift blanket. On him, it looked strangely careless, because Branwen had always been so serious and composed. Now he appeared at ease. Or emptied. On the trail, he had never talked much, but his body had always been desperate. Yu had never understood this sense of tension, that constant strain beneath the calm, until he had first seen him smoke. That had been on the fifth day, when they had slept in a cave. Since then, the pipe had been the one ritual that steadied him. Branwen had smoked whenever possible during the sparce moments they found some sort of shelter from the storms. It had also been the first thing he had done when they arrived at the guild. Today was no different. The faint ember of his pipe glinted in his palm, and thick clouds of smoke curled above his head. He still looked at Yu, though also at something behind him, that was not really there. Or so Yu hoped.
Ondahr and Fallem sat on the two others armchairs that were still lined up opposite the couch. Between the chairs and the couch stood a narrow bench that served as a footstool for those who wished to sprawl toward the fire. Across it, Ondahr had spread a travel map, its parchment a chaos of circles, lines, and letters in differing hands, some neat and measured, others inconsistent, uneven scribbles. A quill lay in a small casing near his claws, its nib stained and the parchment next to it torn where he had pressed too hard. Fallem sat beside him, half-turned away, toying with a small brass thing that clicked and chimed; some sort of complex pocket compass or watch, or perhaps an artefact. As he tinkered with it, the lid opened and shut, opened and shut, keeping time with Harrow’s fingers drumming on the backrest of her chair.
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