The barman raises an eyebrow. "Is that the story he tells away South? That's not what those who were there say." He leans in closer. "Round here, they say it was murder. She'd already surrendered, and the Raven promised clemency. Cenone had her killed, her and her little twins, too."
You feel a chill run down your spine. There's a sad tale fit for an epic tragedy.
At that moment there's a call for the barman, and he turns away. "Got work to do. Good luck to you now." It's clear he'll say no more on the subject.
In the morning you are on the road again, taking the path that leads to Stanhope rather than what's left of Pomona. The sense of strangeness vanishes.
The high peaks are aglitter with snow even though the days are warm. Farmsteads surrounded by fields and pastures dot the landscape, and the sky is a brilliant, lambent blue. The air is fresh so far away from any city and the smoke from thousands of fires. Horses graze peacefully. You look up, your eye drawn by a fledgling hawk turning on the breeze.