[Curled up on the cushions in the Mist Camp tent, Gwenn writes.]
Isn't it a sad, strange state of affairs when the one you find yourself returning to, is one made you flee at your first meeting? It is so for myself and Toma. I can't believe he's a year younger than me - he's seen much, I can tell, and there's a knowing wisdom in his words. Though he did give me more plum brandy than I can manage, but he handled me like a gentleman, from what I remember.
He's leading some sort of mercenary company at present - he wanted me to join. I've been without direction for a long time. Perhaps this is mine?
I ought to speak with him again. Perhaps he'll have decided against it with some thought.
Gwenn, unwitting apostate, a mage by the Maker's hand.
