The man who answers the door (boy, really, Jedao looks all of seventeen) is at least a head shorter than Francis, but he carries a sleek double-edged sword with the casual ease of someone who knows how to use it. The sword is low between them, almost insultingly unthreatening. He doesn't have his heels together for a proper first position, but the quiet readiness of his relaxed shoulders and the downward angle of the blade suggest it.
He takes in the stranger's courtesy, his gentle voice, his muddy saddlebags heaped awkwardly in his arms.
He takes a step back, out of the doorway. "It wouldn't be fair to refuse you," he says, and his voice has a soft accent from somewhere quite far away, but the gentle tone of it isn't too different from Francis's own. "Given that I'm only seeking shelter myself."
The room beyond him is badly dilapidated, and there are a few leaks and a few rotten floorboards sprouting mushrooms and dandelions, but Jedao has managed drag a mattress through the dust and rip it open, using the worst of the hay for kindling and heaping up the rest around a bedroll.
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He takes in the stranger's courtesy, his gentle voice, his muddy saddlebags heaped awkwardly in his arms.
He takes a step back, out of the doorway. "It wouldn't be fair to refuse you," he says, and his voice has a soft accent from somewhere quite far away, but the gentle tone of it isn't too different from Francis's own. "Given that I'm only seeking shelter myself."
The room beyond him is badly dilapidated, and there are a few leaks and a few rotten floorboards sprouting mushrooms and dandelions, but Jedao has managed drag a mattress through the dust and rip it open, using the worst of the hay for kindling and heaping up the rest around a bedroll.