Some aged gossips loitering in Melinchome's streets encourage you to follow the old northwest wall to the hill for the best view of the moonlight. It's a remarkable night, full of stars and thin, slumbering clouds.
You offer up a few quips to the stranger, who responds in kind for an exchange or two but demonstrates a strong tendency towards silence as you walk. In their presence, you're aware of the distant rush of the waterwheel in the town mill, the low drumbeat of the Tarantalong back at the alehouse, the braying of an insomniac goat somewhere in town. There's a certain appeal to being with someone who knows how to be quiet.
"A fool's life must be a queer one," they break in after a long time, running a hand over the top of the old wall as you walk. "Where do you see it leading, for thee?"
You give your chin a scratch. "I think about Vatch, I suppose," you say at last. "Are you familiar?"
Their eyes crinkle. "The gadfly extraordinaire?"
"Without the gadfly's sting, what would make the ox decide to move?"
"Hunger? Thirst? Its own fancies?"
"Frivolities all," you sniff. "A gadfly can help the ox move in ways it never would otherwise. I would be honored to use my art to help my audience move to a place they never expected."
They look at you closely. "Do you feel you're on that path?"