------ ###### Early Winter 112 of Estrella      The journey begins henceforth, like the last crispy leaf left upon the rosebush's decaying stem, I too, struggle to fall with the rest of my brothers and sisters. There, they lie, flattened, crushed, shriveled, forgotten on the dirt. But, my welcome at the inn is gradually declining. The tavern master, with his wiry beard that fails to grow anywhere but directly under neck, has taken up to knocking on my door every few minutes. The winter comes and this inn will soon close until the spring sun comes to melt the white coat across the fields. They are eager to leave to Havishford. It will take them at least a fortnight to reach their destination, and I'm delaying their departure.      I eat the last biscuit afforded to me by the tavern master's wife. It's a terrible treat. Dry, crumbly, and flavored with nothing but stale air. Surely, they did not run out of sugar, for they used some to sweeten the tea from this morning. Just terrible baking skills.      I hear the tavern master yell for me again. The impatience in his slurred speech, wafting through the empty inn like a shriek. I give in to their demands, if only to escape the increasingly stuffy room. From the corner, I pick up my supply pack. In the front pocket, I carefully tuck in the delicate biscuits covered loosely with my dirty handkerchief. In the pocket to the side, I doublecheck that my poultices of Hagweed were still in their glass bottles. Then, in the main compartment, I shoved what little clothes I had with me. The rest, I wore. For the winter air would bite me otherwise.      The innkeepers were jubilant as I left for the main road. Behind me, I could hear the lady yell, "Havishford is south!"      I was northbound, to the icy kingdoms. Where it would be safe. No, I could not bear tell them the truth. Perhaps, my reluctance to leave, I convinced myself, would somehow delay their travels and they would realize it themselves. Havishford had burnt to the ground.