I grew complacent. I felt comfortable, and sometimes, the smiles weren't just calculations to put the locals at ease. We had a rapport, some coming to expect my prized bundles of pelts, my gathered piles of semiprecious stones, the business I brought the community. Drinks for all! In their eyes I could detect none of the malice I recalled, their laughs were shared, not at my expense. Everything was... nice. I was happy.

I had forgotten the Work. Forgotten the truth. It was a lie, time squandered, hollow, petty, inevitably false. When the woodsman noticed I wasn't responding to that silly sign language of theirs, I once again heard the whispers, saw the hate, and recognized it all for the cheaply veneered mummers ruse it was. I didn't really try and exculpate myself, I just left, swimming across the River and heading for the cold, the isolation.

It's easier here. The locals don't stray far from the walls of their shining city, and some of those I find in the wilderness seem to be struggling with burdens of their own. I've renewed my efforts on the Work, forgotten how powerful the tools can be. I won't be returning to the north unless it suits me, for I've everything I need here, in the cold, with my tools.

I remember that last image of the harbor, the salt yards and circling crows above the stinking swamp. A campfire illuminated the faces of those I once relaxed with, drank with. The image was fleeting; I only looked back once.