[Inziladun]

The last light had faded from the sky as Vëandur walked back to his quarters. He had taken a light meal, a loaf of bread, with cheese and dried meat at the Water Horse, an inn he'd chosen because his shipmates routinely shunned it as being full of "city rats". He didn't feel like talking to any of them tonight. It was a shame they felt that way, really. The mead there was quite good, he'd found.
As he walked he felt the breeze stirring his hair. A South wind. Vëandur smiled, thinking of the places it had recently been. He saw clouds born upon it, slowly covering the high starts. Storm clouds, he thought.

He walked up to the iron fence that marked the entrance to Ship's Row, the place set aside for those of the Fleets in the City on business. There was a heavy gate, but it was always left open in these times of peace. A man sat on a stool there. A guard he was in name, but really he was nothing more than a glorified nanny, there to keep watch on the reprobate sailors for the safety of the City. That caused Vëandur to smile wryly. The man saw him coming and stood. There was no need to give his name, for the same man had been there when Vëandur had set out. The guard saluted, and Vëandur returned it absently.

He walked through the gate and arrived at his "house", which, from the gate, was the third on the left of a row of long, low spartan buildings. The others surely weren't here. He walked inside. They were not. Good.
Vëandur walked to his bed and opened a trunk at its foot. He pulled out various items, then removed his best cloak, reserved for formal occasions. It was colored a very dark blue, the shade of the sky in the heat of a clear Summer day. He took off the dun-colored "duty" cloak he'd been wearing, and put in in the trunk, along with everything he'd taken out. Before he put on the other cloak, he went to a long wooden locker standing against the wall beside his bed. All the beds had similar lockers by them, for the stowing of valuable possessions. Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked it. His sword-belt was there, his sheathed sword on it. Since he was attending a function at the invitation of a City official, he thought he should wear it. He girt himself, then put on the cloak. He wished he had a glass to view himself, but the one in the house was broken. He turned to sit down on his bed and consider again the night before him. Before he could do so, there was a soft knock at the door.