It's time I leave Rosemerrow, Alyosha. All sorts of cockroaches scramble through this city, now. And while I am used to the cretinous locals--who can blame them for not ascending to their highest potentials in this town--it is the new arrivals which distract and anger.
A fascinating thing, refugees. There is no limit to the reasons that drive them from their erstwhile homes: War, famine, disease, faith. But regardless, when they leave, however strong their so called "collective will," they are stripped of their culture, alienated from the world--even from each other.
For these souls, I do not know that even the New University would offer much education. They are best regarded of runoff from the storm of history.
This week on Friends at the Table: Blood Doesn't Run
My Tutor, you bear no malice in your appraisal of the world, I know. But you forget: We are both refugees too—and though we too were stripped of our nations, we found our own culture, no? Strange bedfellows indeed... In the life of an exile there is despair. But in the life of two, there is hope.
Twinbrook sits between the Cloud and Rose River banks. And it is morning in Twinbrook. You've left the Primping Badger, the inn where you were staying, where you'd had breakfast, and the second that you step out, into the town, you hear the sound of metal against wood. To your left, towards the path that you took to Twinbrook, you see a crowd beginning to gather. They're watching, under the light of the sun, a moth-man strike the dam with his steel sword, over and over and over again. What do you do?