Tavath fidgeted uncomfortably as he sweated in the get-up he'd been forced to wear; the damned trade guild insisted that he wear their guard's uniform over his armour, and while the combination of his thick leather breastplate, the heavy wool cloak, and fur-edged boots would have kept him comfortably warm in the northern parts of Connlaoth, here in the humid, southern coast of Summervale, they only served to boil him. The envoy was busy haranguing some widowed trade magnate about the price of seashells or whatever it was they made here, leaving Tavath to his own devices.
Don't make a nuisance of yourself, was what the envoy had said. After two weeks at sea, Tavath wasn't feeling much like making a nuisance, but nor could he stand to be inside the small, modestly kept house any more. If this widow were a trader queen, she wasn't showing it off very well. The only thing that suggested she might have any money was the garden. Hoping the greenery would take the edge off of the humidity, Tavath made his way to a low stone bench near the centre of the garden. He leaned his spear against a thick-trunked apple tree and unhooked the clasp of his cloak. He loosened the straps of his armour, took the heavy green wool and rolled it into a tight bundle, using it as a pillow as he laid down on the stone bench and closed his eyes. Hopefully, the cooler air here would do him some good.
