The Forever Caravan stopped only because night forced it to.
Wagons stand in long crescent rows beside the ancient road, lanterns swaying from hooks and axle posts while cookfires burn in careful clusters. Animals are watered, wheels checked, guards rotated, songs half-heard somewhere deeper in the camp.
Closer to the road sits the rough outer camp — peddlers, pilgrims, mercenaries, performers, debt-runners, shrine folk, camp followers, failed applicants, and people with nowhere safer to sleep.
At the boundary between the two: a folding table beneath a patched awning.
An older woman in layered roadcoats watches your approach while a younger clerk beside her finishes writing notes onto narrow paper strips. Two guards linger nearby with the relaxed posture of people who know exactly how quickly relaxation becomes violence.
The clerk glances up first.
“Standard road protocol,” she says. “Surface read, emotional scan, basic intent check. Before you complain — no, it does not pull secrets out of your skull. If it did, this job would pay better.”
The older woman snorts quietly.
“It catches outlines. Impressions. Things that matter when deciding whether someone sleeps near the wagons or three fires away from everyone else.”
The clerk pulls a smooth, flat stone from beneath the table and sets it between you. Faint symbols pulse along its edges.
“Hand on the stone and let the reading stand, speak your piece without it, or do both if the stone misses something important. Some travelers trust the read. Some talk over it. Some have nothing worth reading and just tell us what they need.”
She shrugs.
“Stone, words, or both. Your call. Either way, we need something before you go any further.”
The older woman finally gestures toward the road behind you, then toward the lantern-lit caravan.
“So. Are you asking for work, shelter, a place inside the circle... or just permission to follow the road with us awhile?”
