It seemed like days in Ashveil never changed. I woke up just like any other day and went about my chores like a good lower-class citizen (better than being an almost-homeless adventurer). I walked down the main street kicking little stones as if they were small problems, the newspaper tucked under my arm, my collar half done up giving me that "don't care what people think" look.
The newsstand was open before the sun even had a chance to warm the cobblestones properly. The shelves creaked under the weight of the editions, and a new stack of papers still smelling of fresh ink trembled in one corner. Marlow wasn't there at that hour—probably off preaching morals at some merchants' meeting worried about taxes. After all, that's all he'd been good at since winning the contest.
