Tempered senses tossed Garron into an immediate awareness more-so than usual. Something was amiss, and oddly familiar, but what could it possibly be? His blood was singing a song he thought he should know, and his perceptions were nagging at him with each passing second. One thing Garron couldn't stand was not having the ability to calculate an equation of life quickly. His mind was always so sharp and disciplined; he had no choice in the matter with being raised by one such as his mother. Life was a precious thing, quickly extinguished by stupidity.

Tough love was a much different thing when a child did wrong during adolescence years with most other parents and their children within the world. Maybe a heated verbal scalding, or some token the child loved was taken away for a matter of time. Not Garron... he become used to the warm sensation of his own plasma rolling down near every inch of his body, and large purple bruises that yellowed with time. Pain had grown to be a well known companion of his; that is until Medeia blessed his life so many years ago. He was determined to make his mother proud, but by walking his own path in life, not walking one laid out for him. The time had come on the dawn of his 20th year and the two loving companions were ignorant to what trying adventures toggle mysteriously over their expansive horizon.

Decrulitlul's villagers looked like an undead bunch. One would think being in the sun for so much of their lives would appear somewhat healthier. It had been obvious the saltine spray of the ocean mingling with the breath-stealing humidity had taken their atmospheric tolls on these people. Their skin was like old yellowed parchment, seemingly about to peel or split at any moment with the wrong ping of movement, and their repellent body odor was something that could choke a worm. Garron wondered if any of these villagers knew what a bath was, but he knocked the thought off with the repulsive smell of his own days old unsavory spice wafting up striking his nostrils. He definitely needed a bath himself, and he hoped he could find one here, but he wasn't going to stake it feasible. Faded grey and brown burlap wrapped most of Decrulitlul's inhabitants, and their hair looked as if it were brittle and wired to their heads in tight scalp binding braids the length of their skulls, much like the irritating style Medeia braided his hair to fit in. It amazed Garron that once entered into the cool embrace of the parent ocean, the paper-like plebeians of Decrulitlul sprang to life.

It was clear who belonged to this decrepit little coastal village, and whom was passing through to peddle wares and stomach pleasing morsels, or landing here in hopes of lodging with a clean bath and option to resupply. Visitors looked like a blazing beacon against a drab backdrop along the straining dock planks. One in particular stood out among the rest. Robes of the brightest yellow Garron had ever laid eyes on blinded him every time the stocky man shifted outside of thatch shade into the unforgiving Tylmerande sun. The smoothest silk flowed like hot caramel from neck to ankle, plastered against moist skin in areas perspiration dominated. He had a barrel of a belly, and Garron couldn't determine if the breeze had been the culprit of the butter silk jiggling over the large humped outline, or if it was the man's enormous girth dancing in waves every time he moved. Rings cast in gold and silver, with jewels Garron didn't recognize twinkled brightly on doughy fingers appearing like keg castings. Chubby feet were bare against rotting wood, as was the custom in Decrulitlul for merchants proving to be genuine, and a violet lace scarf lightly wrapped his face and head; a simple facade hiding expression and identity.

Steaming meat and vegetable pies of various textures and sizes set in rows of three over the rough center serving sil of textured oak; lemon cakes, apricot rolls and other flaky sweets drawing the senses set to the right, and freshly baked bread loaves and heels perfect for trenchers hugged the sil's left side lining the open-faced merchants hovel. "Come, big man! The most savory beef, mutton and black pudding hearty enough to satisfy giant such as self! Sweets for your little sweet to make nice to like more of you", the chubby merchant sang out to Garron in seductive tones practiced and charmed, arms wide and flailing wild to further gain Garron's attention as if his obnoxious yellow sail of clothing wasn't enough to stop a rainstorm. "Come! Two hot pies directly out fire!"

Garron rubbed off Medeia's playful elbow and bumped her with a hip, settling squinting viridian eyes over the round merchant taking visual inventory of him and his hovel. "Where do you hail from, peddler? Your accent doesn't appeal me to be of Corone", Garron asked, gently pulling Medeia closer to him, an index finger tapping her as a signal of cautiousness.

The merchant shimmied a bit backwards, quickly shooting out a barrage of words while showcasing his wares with pasty fingers of gold and silver. "Aye. I not of this island originally, but many time I sail here as lad. Grew on me, it did and now frequent Serenti between travel sell. Now, now, you buy delicious morsels from me!"

There was something curious between words and octave, leaving Garron to suspect this merchant was avoiding his direct question. He took a step forward by way of the wide sil, setting a large palm atop its nearest rough grain edge; his other hand releasing Medeia and swinging towards his coin purse tucked away in his belt near a double bit throwing ax.

Sil planted palm raised and suspended stiffened index finger motioning to two beef pies toasted flaky brown and still steaming through crust slits. "Take a bite of each, peddler," his voice peppered with a hint of malice.

Yellow silks quivered at Garron's direct command, composing himself posthaste with smoothing out silks at sides and squaring chest. "Ahem... good merchant not taste own stock. Bad for business, yes, yes. But for big man such as self, I do now. Happy, happy, you be and buy!"

The merchant engulfed a wooden spoon between fingers like sausages about to burst out their casing. His hand methodically moved the spoon closer to one of the pies Garron signaled to. As crust was broken, the merchant twisted his wrist catching the hot Tylmerande sun in jewels adorning rings, reflecting a beam of light to catch Garron full in the eyes, blinding him with a band of white flash. Rebounding from his calculated endeavor, he flipped another pie into the stunned face of Garron and shot back faster than would be believed of such a fat man fleeing his post.

Garron cursed and stumbled over unsure footing back and away from the open-faced hovel. He noticed Medeia was no longer stationed behind him when his left arm shot back instinctive, seeking out any sort of bracing sightless and struggling for breath...