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Trorinolis is a relatively normal inland town by Mithradian standards. It lies near the convergence of two rivers and is notable for its walls, which keep it relatively safe. The countryside, too, is more orderly than what you have previously seen. Olive groves and wheat fields are in full glory here as a few peasants pull along a handcart. This is a far more pleasant surprise than you had previously expected.
Root cellars, granaries and a few farmsteads dot the hilly land as you march closer towards the city gate. For the occasion, you had appointed a banner-bearer to assuage any fears that you wear an enemy. Western heraldry is, after all, very different from the type of symbols the Saracen used for his banners. You also chose not to wear your helmet for that matter, as it would allow you to speak with the watch if they asked you about something.
Just before you came under the arch of the gate, a slender middle-aged man dressed in scale armour walked over to the middle of the gateway to block your path. <span class="mu-i"> ''Halt if you would please, we would like to know your reasons for appearing here, as you have shown no intention to do us or our city any harm. We would like to prevent any unnecessary conflicts.'' </span> He spoke in a low, provincial accent of Mithradian that gave you some difficulty in translating before you spoke.
<span class="mu-i"> ''Then you can tell your superior that I am a friend of your emperor, as I am here to aid him against his foes. I offer my help in your problems for a billet, food, and fodder for my horses.'' </span>
<span class="mu-i"> ''Excuse me for a minute.'' </span> the man walked back the way he came before returning. <span class="mu-i"> ''The Eparch had received word beforehand that an army from the mainland may come. He wishes to meet with you at the earliest possible convenience. You will receive your billet and fodder, but I am afraid that we currently cannot provide you with food.'' </span>
The streets of Trorinolis are heavily crowded, though they make way for the metal-clad men that march through their streets. Many look at your horse with envious and hungry eyes, and the marketplace is packed with tents for the refugees. From the inside, you spied the partially dismantled citadel that stood at the highest point within the city walls. You wonder what happened to it. You will probably find out.
The eparch is a spindly, balding bureaucrat. With a clear but troubled glint in his eye. His deck is stacked with towers of papers and parchment, as well as spend ink pots and other office supplies. <span class="mu-i"> ''Please, my lord. Sit down, if you would. I understand you have come here on a campaign against the invaders, and though my own resources are quite thin, I can at least offer you my hospitality.'' </span>
He offered you a glass of win, he poured in the wine first, before diluting it with water. <span class="mu-i"> ''It makes it less powerful, and keeps your head clear for longer. It's the last vintage from my estates before the workers ran away. Can't say I blame them.'' </span> He paused.
