A cane rapped against the side of Fel's head as he lay sprawled across the floor.

He was in a mudroom, and a storm of sand continued to whip itself against the building's exterior walls. Small piles of sediment lay gathered in the room's corners while motes continued to float around in the air. Was it a sandroom, then? That'd probably be the term.

Fel jerked as the cane rapped again.

"Do you need a potion, or are you merely brooding over your near-miss with death?"

Looking dazedly up towards the voice behind his head, Fel flinched away as the cane came by for a third pass.

A hunched and grey-haired older woman raised her brow at him as he fell backward into a wall. "Well? Are you dying? Mute? Feel free to speak up if you can." With her free hand, she waved a slim tube of red liquid in front of his nose.

"No, I'm—" Pulling himself together, Fel patted himself down. "I'm fine. Thank you, Miss, for your concern and assistance. That would've been a rather unpleasant experience." He grimaced and pushed himself onto his feet.

"Unpleasant? Ha! You'd be dead if you'd stayed out there, not just discomforted." The woman sniffed and repocketed the vial. "Fools these days. Take off your shoes and hang that rag on the wall. I'm interested to hear what, exactly, was so time-sensitive that you felt the need to kill yourself by running through the bells."

Fel blinked as the elderly woman abruptly exited the room, then peered down at himself. His brain hadn't entirely caught up with the fact that he'd need to stay inside for the duration of the storm. Nor that he remained covered in sand from the initial gust. Still, after a moment's pause, Fel removed his boots and robe. Left wearing a loose undershirt and pants, he followed her into a slightly larger space.

The new room's interior wall was lined with waist-high statues. Chunks of stone lay brushed against their edges, while tools sat organized across a table in front of where the old woman now sat.

"Come in— come in! Don't stand there gawking; come sit in a chair!"

Moving to take a seat across from her, Fel looked over the statue sitting on the table between them. It was the greater-half of a blacksmith's rounding hammer, sticking out from what seemed to be a yet-unworked section of the stone. The stone hammer's handle protruded at an angle, with the blunted end pointed dangerously towards Fel's shoulder before the woman twisted the whole thing away.

"Well, I suppose it's up to me to start things off." Leaning forwards across the table, the woman grunted, then stretched out a wrinkled but calloused hand. "My name is Glendal Nallus. Do you often risk killing yourself to reach your destination?"

The bluntness of the question caught Fel by surprise, and for the moment, he floundered. "Well, it was hardly intentional. I'm not from around here; it caught me rather unaware." He straightened in his chair. "You see, I've been having an issue with a Skill of mine, where I—"

"Ah! No— no, that's quite enough." The old woman suddenly waved her hands, dropping her wry demeanor and interrupting Fel before he could begin to pick up steam.

"Pardon?"

"You've misinterpreted my question. Please, there's no reason for you to share your Skills with me." Grimacing, Glendal shifted in her chair. "I Intended to ask where you were trying to go. Being a visitor here — as you clearly are — the guards at the gate should've either arranged an escort or held you until it was safe to pass."

Fel frowned. "Well, I couldn't say anything in regards to any guards, but I was headed to the Messengers' Guild. I got a bit lost."

"And you didn't think to check the statues? Or even to ask at one of the sandstops?

"I'm not entirely aware of how to read the first, and as for the second—" Fel crossed his arms as the questions piled on, setting himself firmly back in his chair. "Frankly speaking, I still don't know what those are."

Glendal seemed to pause at that. Picking up a metal file and tapping it against the desk, her expression settled into what could best be described as an indirect glower. "I see. Very foreign, then." Picking her cane up from against the wall, she stood from her chair and leaned out through one of the room's doors. When Fel moved to follow, she waved him down.

"Dalton! Come in here for a minute!" Rapping her cane loudly against the sandstone doorframe, Glendal called out before moving back to her chair.

A minute passed before a man appeared in the entryway. He seemed to be young — early twenties at the latest — with shaggy, dark brown hair and near six-feet in height. He sighed as he stepped into the room, rubbing something from the corner of his eye.

"Yes, Grandmother. What do you need? I thought you'd still be working on the— oh." The man stiffened as he looked up, only to catch sight of Fel. Hurridly, he ducked into a bow. "My apologies, sir, I hadn't realized anyone was scheduled for the afternoon."

Glendal cackled from behind the table. "You can stand, Dalton— he's not a customer, just some fool who didn't shelter for the storm."

The young man immediately relaxed, only to dip his head towards his grandmother in a gesture of exasperation. "Grandmother— another one? As little as I'd enjoy finding a dead body on roads, the city has sandstops for a reason. If you feel the need to interfere with visitors' affairs, then pointing them where to go should be more than enough."

"Bah," Glendal waved a gnarled hand dismissively. "I hardly had the time to pull the man inside. The wards have already been pulled down, dear; you can hear the storm if you'd just take a moment to listen." She clapped. "But in any case! Mister Fel, Dalton here works for the Messenger's Guild. Seeing as he has the next shift, I'm certain he'll be more than happy to escort you there."

The old woman grinned, then clasped her hands together at her front. "That was all Dalton, thank you for coming so quickly."

Fel could hear the younger man groan as he walked all the way back through the building.

"Thank you, Miss Nallus. I think I'll take you up on that." Pausing, Fel scratched at an ear. "What, ah— what would you like me to do in the meanwhile?"

"Do? I don't want you to do anything." Peering up at where Fel stood with a bewildered look across her face, Glendal shooed him towards the far side of the room. "Sit down and stay out of the way; it'll be three hours until the weather mages next calm the storm. We'll have you out of here just as soon as the sand settles."

And like that, she dismissed him.

Moving her attention back to the sculpture before her, Glendal's hands began to glow a light blue. With short, gentle movements, she ran them down the sides of the still-blocky base, slowly deforming them in shape as Fel watched by in uncertainty. Every half dozen seconds or so, she'd pause to pick up a tool, shearing off a chunk at a time or smoothing out a line with one broad stroke.

After about fifteen minutes, Fel coughed into his hand.

"My apologies, but I don't believe we ever actually discussed what a sandstop was. Or—" Fel paused to gesture around them. "—what the statues are intended to represent."

The light from Glendal's hands shut off as Fel spoke. After a moment's silence, she sighed.

"A brief explanation then. Sandstops are precisely what they sound like; their doors are open, and you may duck into them at any point to shelter from the storm. There's at least one on every street corner, and while it's not a building which the guard would allow you to stay the night in, each has enough room for eight."

She took a breath as Fel nodded to himself.

"Interpreting the sculptures is even simpler, though arguably a matter of experience and with several rather superfluous details. In short, If it looks like something a profession might use, you've likely found a craftsman's shop. Anything without a sculpture is a residence, and everything else beyond that is up in the air. Needless to say, however, is that if the sculpture is bread, it's a baker. Need I go on?"

Fel shook his head in denial. "No, that makes a lot of sense, thank you."

"Good. Now though, I'd suggest you be silent. I've put three days of work into this, and if you mess me up now, I'll have Dalton throw you back into the storm."

Fel shut up, settling himself in for the wait.

After the storm subsided, Dalton led Fel to the Messengers' Guildhall. It was a short six buildings past the stoneworker's shop— he'd been just barely too slow to reach it on his first pass through the streets.

Back in his robe and shoes, Fel shook his head and smiled as the door to the Guild was opened for them. If he'd just been a bit faster, he might've made it through. Assuming he could've made sense of the statue that marked the Guild's location, at least.

There was no sandroom where the two of them walked in. Instead, a blast of air kicked the built-up grains from their clothing as they passed through the doorway, a set of runes glowing across its outer surface. The man who'd opened the door cocked his brow as two men entered rather than the expected one, but he didn't comment.

Once inside, and before he could get distracted by the room, Fel tapped Dalton on the shoulder. "Ah— Mr. Nallus, if I could prevail on you just for a few minutes?"

The young man turned with an annoyed glance but gestured for Fel to continue.

Ignoring the expression, Fel did so. "I recently sent some messages from a town named Kelton. I'm expecting a response, but I didn't have an opportunity to leave a forwarding location before I left."

"And you'd like me to send a redirection request. I see, well, that is something I can do." Relaxing slightly, Dalton led Fel to an empty receptionist's desk. There, he snagged a pad and quill. "Your name is Fel... what?" Dalton scribbled a line on the sheet in front of him and then looked up. "Your last name. What's your last name?"

"Ah, well— my name is Noah, actually. Noah Fel."

"Alright. Now, a town named Kelton, you said? Where is— no, nevermind, I have the Guild branch here. Did you set up any kind of verification?"

Fel shook his head, and Dalton wrote in an additional line before setting the quill back into its pot.

"Then consider it sent." Double-checking the location, Dalton waved Fel away. "If anything is waiting there for you, I'll bring it out. Feel free to grab a seat in the meanwhile." Still staring at the pad in his hand, Dalton walked into a back room and closed the door.

Shrugging to himself, Fel found a table off to one side and sat down to wait.

Taken as a whole, the Guildhall environment was much the same as it had been in Kelton and Leudran. Fel watched as a veritable stream of people entered and left the building. Most diverted off towards the manned messaging tables, but he did see a couple of actual [Messengers] picking up packages or dropping them off. Absently, he wondered how they moved around during the storm.

Slowly, though, the traffic dropped off. The bells rang once, then twice, before finally ringing a third time, at which point the man at the door stepped away. Fel remained, absently tapping his feet and stringing mana throughout his body as the Guildhall fell into relative silence. There were still people inside— those who waited like Fel, as well as [Messengers] not yet on delivery — but the resumed storm that raged outside shut the majority of the work down.

After nearly an hour, Fel looked up at the sound of a nearby door opening.

Dalton walked up with an expression that was off, just by a bit. He rubbed a hand across his chin before handing Fel a single letter.

"My apologies, Mr. Fel. I'll leave you to your business."

"Ah, so there was one! My thanks, Dalton."

Taking hold of the message, Fel nodded towards the young man's leaving form before starting to read with an expectant smile. It slowly degraded its way into a frown. He read the message through a second time and then a third before the words began to settle in. It was short — perfunctory even — but the meaning was difficult for him to grasp.

Fel's head began to spin as he carefully refolded the page, slipping it into a pocket in his robe. It was a message from the Collegium, sealed with both spell and crest.

He was fired. No— no longer employed was the line that'd been used. There'd been no acknowledgment of the letter Fel had sent the Collegium. There'd been little on the page at all, to tell the truth.

Fel sat for a while, then unfolded the message and looked at it again.

That was all they'd written: Noah Fel was no longer employed by the Collegium.

Did they think him dead? That he was an impersonator dipping into their funds? Or was he honestly just being let go— in which case, why hadn't they responded to the letter he'd sent? There'd been no date on the page, just the contents and a seal.

He re-read the paper twice more before finally leaving it be.

They'd have already emptied his office, he was sure. But— he'd sent a message. It'd been an explanation as complete as he could make it; the events were outside his control. A full majority vote from the local council would've been required to remove him. Why hadn't they—

Fel snapped himself from his daze.

For the moment, it really didn't matter. The Collegium's Guild account was a boon, but ultimately not something he needed to fund his future message sending. And aside from that, there wasn't a lot the institution might've offered either way. The knowledge of his terminated employment was a punch to the gut, to be sure, but as it pertained to his getting home? Almost inconsequential. His sister would be the most affected, losing access to the housing provided to him, but she'd find her own way in it all.

Still, despite his sound reasoning, Fel felt his hands shake as he rubbed them together. It was a blow. Taking a deep breath, he began walking towards the Guild's main desk. He'd planned to go up after first being asked to wait, but ended up being anxious in his anticipation for a response.

Ironic, now.

The timing was now about as poor as it possibly could've been, but nothing had changed. Fel still needed money — it was almost ridiculous, the degree to which he'd managed without so far — and he knew exactly how to get it.

Everyone needed mages, and he needed to be employed.

Thud.

Fel jerked as he bumped into the frontmost desk. He looked up as the red-headed receptionist gave him an almost offended stare, then hurried to summon a small ball of mana into his outstretched palm.

Sheepishly, he offered a smile. "My apologies, I was caught up in my thoughts. My name is Fel — would you be able to tell me if your city's Guildmaster is in? I'd like to offer my services for a few days."