The name "LeAnn" brought expressions of utter confusion among the family that had stopped to ask about Dezrehn's well-being. The way that name was even
pronounced marked it as foreign to the region. The fact that Dezrehn had said she
lived there only deepened their confusion.
"Maybe he's talkin' about Leann," the woman's husband said in the local language as he ran his fingers through gruff facial hair. He pronounced it like "Lin."
That was enough to spark recognition in the woman's eyes. "Oh! You mean Leann," she chirped in the trade-tongue. "Here, come with us. We'll show it to you."
A village of only two hundred people or so was a small place indeed. The walk was not at all far through the village's main road. It turned and led to a small group of hills, and as if the structure was built into the very hill itself, lay a home.
(Image courtesy of Ravenbraid, and text by me, copied from a different thread.)
The combination of home-and-shopfront was of a rustic sort: A picket-gated yard with a cobblestone path leading to a perfectly round door nestled neatly into the side of a small, grassy hill. Out front was a simple sign reading "OPEN" in the local language.