The half-formed image Vilon had painted in his mind outside the palisade did not relent one bit once he crossed the threshold.
He had estimated there would be thousands packed inside, and indeed, thousands there were, a dense, roiling sea of displaced humanity.
Wherever he turned his eyes, he saw bodies set to backbreaking tasks or trudging through the gray muck to begin their labor. He passed a tight ring of old women and small, solemn-faced children sitting on upturned crates, their fingers flying as they wove thick river reeds and willow branches into sturdy baskets and storage chests.
Further down the lane, a crew of men was actively gutting and butchering fresh game brought in from Hunters, maybe from the sorrounding villages.
