Your mannerism attracts many quizzical looks, the puzzled faces barely visible in the worsening rain. Beneath your feet the earthen road becomes studded with the odd flagstone, and the buildings are now made of mortar with skeletal beams of varnished wood, and a roof of treated leather. "These are good houses, it must be nice, living in one of those, during a storm. What is your house like my lady?"<br/><br/>Soon you reach the tower, finding its surface to be coated in leather, although here it is tanned much better and stitched tighter, a darker brown that resists water, and no doubt flame too. The door is thick wood reinforced with iron, open ajar, yet Mot pauses, suddenly doubting whether he should be here. When you enter you find yourself surrounded by three priests wearing jangling iron scales over their white robes, and armed with crude short sword. "What are you doing here?" one demands in a deep, authoritative voice, the question apparently directed at both of you.