The journey had been long, and the time away from the caravan was arduous. These people out here were strange, with a refusal to talk to strangers and a mistrust of others who they did not know. Her trappings marked her as a gypsy, and even the elves out here were strange-some had abandoned their ways entirely in favour of cities, unable to sing or dance or even to tell a story. They wore the clothes of the common worker, the common farmer, the common craftsman. All of that which made them unique, that which gave them colour and spirit, was gone. There were fewer huntsmen, and hearing Kaela's fellows not speak their own language amongst themselves was most definitely a new experience. Eventually, her journey came to an end outside a wooden building, outside which hung a lustrous sign, all as described in the note.
Now, perhaps she could do something of use to her caravan. They would not forget her, and she would have plenty of time to find something to prove herself worthy of journeying along the Sword Coast. They had not rejected one of their own before, and while Kaela knew in the back of her mind that she would be sent away, she felt in her heart, the heart of a slightly silly young girl, that whatever she could do might not be enough, and that she would have to abandon her old way, to live like this, alone and wandering through the wildernesses of Faerun or worse still ending up as some sort of harlot in Nashkel until a disease ended her near-unending lifetime. This was always plaguing her thoughts, the hint of nerves in every pull of the string around her bow. She had been singing to Laeroth every night, telling her stories and tales to make sure that she did not lose herself in here, trapped in a single place. Towns did not suit Kaela, not at all, and as she entered the inn, she remarked to herself quietly that the sooner this was over the better.