The traveler stood there, lost in the thickest part Lundir Wood. It had been many hours since he had last seen any marker of the trail, and the sun was getting low in the sky. The dark limbs of time-forgotten trees loomed closer, stretching out to obscure him as the last hopeful bands of light crept away. Glancing briefly through his various pockets, pouches and belts, he cursed himself again for not bringing more food. He had left the comfort of the Lodge after a warm daybreak meal of eggs and ham. Thinking it would be a quick trip, he only packed enough food for noon meal, a quick break for traveling bread and water. Trying, and failing, to force the thoughts of his meal from his mind, he pushed onward through the thicker parts of the old woods, sword in hand.
“Cursed trail, where are you?” His own mumbling kept his worry and fear at bay as night fell, as if someone was walking with him on his path. “Just a few hours journey to the river, clear the trail, then right back to Farnath City. An easy job, there and back. Just a trail by the river. No risk, easy money.” The traveler quickened his pace listening for the nearby Rhoda river; hearing nothing, he set off trying to get a little further before all light was gone.
“Bratskig above, dumb cloak” he muttered, stumbling over his well worn and thoroughly patched traveler’s cape in an attempt to clamber over a fallen tree. The curse was out of his mouth before he could stop himself. His patron god, Bratskig, would not be pleased. Some form of minor vengeance would surely befall him, courtesy of his favorite god. He sighed, realising it was going to be a long night.
Stopping for a quick breath of air, the traveler decided here was as good a place as any to make camp for the night, he could hear the river around the next bend.
“Just my luck to be stuck in some Gods forsaken wood. Why do I take these jobs?”
Cursing himself, he began setting up camp for the night. Dropping his sword he fashioned a makeshift bedroll from an old cloak packed with leaves for insulation. The traveler also cleared a small fire circle, more to keep him safe from the wilds than from the cold. After digging through his pack, the traveler produced his water skin.
“Almost empty,” he muttered to himself, making a mental note to refill in the morning when he could see his own hands in front of him.
Sitting down under an ancient oak, the traveler thought back to a night nearly as dark as the current one, back to a past he tried so hard to forget. Memories slid forward from the back of his mind. Words he rather not recall came to him first.
“I replied”
He remembered how those words, uttered so emotionless, forced him to see that this was right.
