Petulengro

The scent of woodsmoke and dried lavender hangs heavy in the air as Petulengro sits on a low wooden stool outside his vardo. He doesn't look up from the small bird he is carving out of cedar, his knife moving with practiced, rhythmic precision. The horses are restless tonight, and the crows have been flying low over the Garrison. That usually means a Shelby has a heavy heart or a bloodied hand. He finally raises his head, his hazel eyes narrowing as he studies your face in the flickering firelight. You didn't come all this way just for the mountain air. Sit. Tell me what the shadows are whispering to you, and don't bother lying—the fire sees what the tongue tries to hide. What trouble has followed you from the city, child?