Chapter 117 — The First Village

Chapter 117: Chapter 117 — The First Village

He reached the village on the sixth day, the terrain having gradually climbed into gentle, rolling hills dotted with grazing flocks long before the settlement itself came into view — a scattering of stone-and-thatch cottages arranged along a single, well-worn main road, smoke rising from chimneys into the crisp afternoon air.

A sign at the village’s edge, weathered but legible, read Thistledown.

Arlen walked in slowly, taking in the details with the same careful attention he brought to every new place — the low stone walls dividing pastureland, sheep grazing in numbers considerably larger than anything he’d seen in the Ashen Frontier’s rockier terrain, the particular, lanolin-heavy smell that seemed to hang over the whole village like a permanent, comfortable fixture.

"You’ll be wanting the inn, most like," said an older woman sweeping her stoop as he passed, not unkindly. "Only one in Thistledown. Can’t miss it — biggest building on the road, on account of the wool trade needing somewhere to store bales before the merchants come through."

"Thank you," Arlen said. "Is there somewhere I might find a proper meal first? I’ve been living off trail rations the past few days."

"Widow Hallon’s stall, just past the well. Best mutton stew in three villages, and she won’t let you leave hungry regardless of how much coin you’re carrying."

Arlen found the stall easily enough, a modest wooden structure with a large pot simmering over an open fire, and the woman tending it — Widow Hallon, evidently, gray-haired and sturdy — looked up at his approach with the frank, appraising attention of someone unaccustomed to unfamiliar faces passing through.

"Traveler," she said, more observation than greeting. "Bowl’s two copper, bread’s included."

"I’ll take one, thank you."

She ladled out a generous portion, and Arlen settled onto a nearby bench to eat, finding the stew rich and hearty in a way that immediately distinguished it from anything he’d prepared himself these past days — a deep, slow-cooked flavor that spoke of hours of patient simmering, root vegetables he didn’t fully recognize, and a seasoning blend carrying a sharp, herbal quality he found himself genuinely curious about.

"This is excellent," he said honestly. "What’s the seasoning? I don’t recognize it."

Widow Hallon studied him with slightly more interest at that. "Hillroot, mostly. Grows wild in the pastures further up the slopes, sheep won’t touch it but it flavors a stew beautifully once dried properly. Don’t get many travelers asking after the recipe rather than just eating and moving on."

"I collect them, when I can," Arlen admitted. "Recipes, ingredients. It’s become something of a habit."

"Unusual habit for a man carrying a sword like that." She nodded toward his weapon, propped against the bench beside him. "Adventurer, then?"

"Rank D, out of Greyhaven originally. Heading to Aurenholt, though I’m taking my time about it."

"Aurenholt." She said the name with the particular, distant respect Arlen had already begun noticing whenever the capital came up in conversation. "Long way from here. You’ll pass through considerably more villages like this one before you’re anywhere close."

"I’m looking forward to it, honestly."

She studied him a moment longer, then, with the brisk practicality of someone who didn’t waste much time on sentiment, ladled a second, smaller portion into a cloth-wrapped bundle and pressed it into his hands. "Dried hillroot, enough for a few meals’ worth of seasoning. No charge — call it payment for being the first traveler in longer than I can remember who actually asked a proper question about my cooking instead of just eating and leaving."

"Thank you," Arlen said, genuinely moved by the gesture, already turning over how he might work the unfamiliar herb into his own cooking once he had proper opportunity to test it.

He spent the remainder of the afternoon wandering Thistledown’s modest length, finding a small weaver’s shop where an elderly man demonstrated, with evident pride, the particular technique used to spin the village’s famous wool into thread strong enough to survive the harsh mountain winters further north.

"Wool from these hills carries oil in it that most sheep don’t manage," the weaver explained, working his spinning wheel with practiced, unhurried motion. "Keeps a body warmer than ordinary wool, though it takes considerably more patience to properly work with."

"Patience seems to be a theme, in a village like this," Arlen observed.

"Good land teaches good patience, I’ve always thought. Nothing worth having comes quick, out here." The weaver studied him with mild curiosity. "You’re not from around these parts."

"Ashen Frontier, originally. Heading toward Aurenholt now."

"Long road. Good road, though, if you’re the patient sort." The weaver’s weathered face creased into a genuine smile. "Not many travelers stop long enough in Thistledown to actually see it properly. Most just pass through toward the capital without a second glance at anything smaller."

Arlen found himself, turning that observation over as he continued through the village, genuinely grateful for the deliberate choice he’d made to travel slow — the accumulated small kindnesses of an afternoon properly spent, the hillroot recipe, the weaver’s patient craft, all of it exactly the kind of texture he’d have missed entirely on a faster, more urgent road.

He considered the inn the old woman had mentioned that morning, and found himself, weighing it honestly, more drawn to a quiet night under open sky than four walls, however welcoming. He made camp instead just past the village’s edge, close enough to still see Thistledown’s scattered chimney smoke against the darkening sky, and prepared a modest dinner using a careful pinch of the widow’s gifted hillroot, curious to test it against his own accumulated cooking knowledge.

Sharp, almost peppery undertone once properly dried, he noted, working through his familiar documentation. Pairs well with root vegetables, probably game meat too, though I’ll need to test that properly once I’ve got something worth seasoning.

He wrote further in his journal that evening, the entry carrying the same unhurried, grateful clarity that had characterized every reflection since his departure.

Thistledown. A shepherding village, hillroot seasoning, wool spun with more patience than I properly understood before today. Small kindnesses from people who had no particular reason to offer them beyond simple, genuine warmth.

This is exactly what I hoped this journey would hold. Not just the destination, but every small, unhurried village along the way, each one carrying its own quiet wisdom worth properly stopping to learn.

He closed the journal, the village’s distant lights flickering softly in the deepening dark, and settled in for the night with the particular, settled satisfaction of a day spent exactly as he’d always dreamed his second life might eventually allow.