To walk on foreign shores

3rd Swordday of second Summer: My voyage over the silent sea was long and tiring, but as our vessel slipped into the harbor, all my weariness vanished like mist under the sun. I can't quite describe the feeling - a lightness in the air, a hum of a thousand different lives. The air itself embraced me warmly, carrying the scent of salt spray mingled with cinnamon and the fragrant smoke from a thousand cooking fires. A chorus of shouts and laughter drifted from the quay, joined by the rhythmic clanging of a shipwright's hammer. I stepped onto the smooth stone quay, stumbling after the long journey at sea, and rather than a stern harbor master, I was met by a small child who simply handed me a sweet, honeyed pastry. Her parents, faces the color of burnished copper, offered her a warm smile from their stall nearby. "Welcome, traveler," her father said, his voice as warm as honey as the silver coins braided into his hair jingled softly. "Long journey, my friend? Al'nahar welcomes all." It was in that moment, before even a single word was spoken, that I knew this land was different.   The people of Ri'kahar live very differently from the people of my home. No endless debates, no grand aggravations over who and what is better or did it first, but a simple truth that an old man put into words much later: to welcome a new story is to enrich one's own life. And the city of Al'nahar is the living proof of this ideal. I say "ideal," because just as I was about to walk into the heart of the market, a young beggar, all skin and bones, was shooed away from a stall by a merchant with unkind words. His face was a craggy, sun-hardened mask of impatience, and his voice was a low growl. It was a quick, jarring moment, a tiny tear in the beautiful tapestry, reminding me that even here, grand philosophy has its exceptions.   I'd heard stories of kaharan bazaars, but what I witnessed was something so far beyond the stories. It wasn't just about bartering or haggling; the whole place was a constant, almost feverish, exchange of skills and bargains struck. It was a place of wonder indeed, but beneath it, at the foundation of all that wonder beats the heart of a trade empire . For all their philosophy, the Kaharan people are shrewd traders who understand that their empire is built on coin. I watched a grizzled artisan, his hands calloused from endless hours of sewing, stop and watch a foreign adventurer mend her coat at the wayside with a bent needle. "A fine stitch," he grumbled, his voice rough but not unkind. "But a steady hand needs a good tool. Here." He passed her a well-worn bone needle from his belt, and she took it, eyes wide with surprise, before they began a lively discussion of stitching techniques. My own past as a wandering scholar felt alien here; for I learned that knowledge was to treasured and hoarded, a secret to be protected. Here, it is a currency, a tale to be shared.   And then, as the golden sun set over the alabaster palace, the evening came. My travel companions had invited me to a communal dinner at a shared, quiet garden in a courtyard, a place overflowing with the smells of a dozen different meals. The thick, wavering air was heavy with the scent of roasted meat, fresh bread, and exotic spices I still can't name to this day. Firelight danced on faces from a dozen nations , united by the simple, vibrant glow of shared company. I sat next to a giant woman, sporting a red braid with a tattoo of a coiled dragon on her neck and a laugh that boomed across the garden. "Try this," she said, pushing a bowl toward me. "Taste of ashen isles." Believe me, that dish clarified why the islands are called ashen. We shared plates of green dace, seasoned with herbs from cliffs, and a spicy, fragrant lentil stew from a family that had come from Al'Mashar. The taste was beyond belief, a vibrant explosion of flavors that told me more about their home than any map ever could.   Much later that night, under the silver light of the moons above, I watched as an old man taught a child a song he had just learned from a traveling bard. The notes from his small, wooden oud were soft and melodic, the words softly weaving through the chatter. "What language is that?" I asked, and he smiled a toothless grin. "I don't know - but isn't it a wonderful song? You know, here we take the stories and songs and make them part of ourselves. It is our way." Within an hour, the song was being hummed by everyone around the fire, their voices uniting into a single, raunchy chorus. This city isn't just a harbor for ships and trade; it's a harbor for hearts. My own story, I think, is just beginning here: my heart, it seems, has already found it's home here.

 

From the journals of Miran Cobbler