It's a nice little village in its way--thatch and mud houses, little gardens in the yard, the general air of a place that's not exactly prosperous but definitely not desperate. The whiskered villagers meet Bahorel and Enjolras with only a reasonable sort of reserve, no hostility, despite the obvious differences in appearance. (Though there is some considerable curiousity about Enjolras' complete lack of whiskers, much to Bahorel's amusement.) Meal time is a communal affair, and seems well-supplied, enough that two strangers are given a share without hesitation. A good village.


And yet.

There's fear on the place. A low, heavy think, slinking around under conversations, waiting at the edges of expressions. It's a familiar thing, a mood Bahorel recognizes full well--a mood he hasn't felt over a group since arriving at Milliways, a fear of power from somewhere. Not the leader of the town, a cheerful old couple with whiskers long enough to braid and a swarm of grandchildren, and probably about as much dire authority as any great-grandparents. So--what, then?