“Adjudicator Alara Moritt,” she answered before waving off the offered tobacco. “I don’t smoke the southern weed.”
Sergeant Jild grunted something that might have been assent. “Can’t blame you.” He pulled a cigarette free with his teeth and lit it up. “Tobacco messes my nose up as good as a boot to the face would, but they don’t seem to be selling svel in Highland these days. Pity.”
“Deadroot is my vice of choice,” Alara said. “The cigarettes are worse than the traditional way of smoking it, though.”
“A deadroot cigarette?”
“Sure. They have been in fashion in Haive for the past two years or so. Prices of importing it from the eastern dutchies have gone up in recent years, and so people started rolling them up in smoking paper rather than pulling the smoke through the hose.”
“Deadroot
