Day 20

My sincerest apologies for yesterday’s brevity. We are still in the middle of tracking down Tif, Elli, and a man we have come to know as Idgar. The past two days have consisted mostly of bar fights and interrogations. Wolfe and I suffered a number of bruises at the hands of the locals, but nothing that time will not heal. Wolfe seemed a little too eager to resort to “physical persuasion”, but I have found myself becoming more and more comfortable with his methods. I am unsure as to whether or not I should find this unsettling, but, for the moment, it is what it is.

From the information we gathered throughout the course of yesterday and today, we have learned surprisingly little about Idgar other than his name and a selection of possible destinations. Most of his friends were quite unwilling to talk, but one gave us Idgar’s place of residence – a rusted shanty down by the Axon River – and only after Wolfe had beaten several teeth from his mouth and the hearing from his left ear. Hopefully, Idgar will be unaware of our approach; and, hopefully, Elli is still all right.

Day 19

I am terribly sorry. There will be no updates today… well, aside from this one, of course.

Day 18

It seems I may have underestimated Tifka. When we had first met, I had seen him merely as a child, throwing tantrums and pleading obnoxiously until given what he desired. Apparently, the maturity in his face has more depth than I had first assumed, and he has already begun to prove his cunning amidst the dreadful company of men.

This morning, as we came to the dreary end of the Idean Pass, and crossed onto the backwater roads of Mudfrel, we were unpleasantly surprised by sight of a most uninviting face. A tall, lanky fellow, with a beard as long and spindley as the legs that struggled to support him, held a musket in his bony grip. Wolfe had used the last of our arrows on the Uscedrian, which discarded my sword to the oblivion of the open marshlands without a second thought – and most likely without a first.

Wolfe assured the feeble, aging man that we had lost all our valuables along the Idean Pass, which was hardly a lie. However, I began to sense that this was the type of man who, when left without possessions to take, would suffice with taking a life, and price I refuse to pay. My fears were consoled when Tif approached the man with the softest of expressions, and began calming him down. Leading him down the path a ways, until their conversation became private, he began soothing the man’s temper. He even managed to coax an unfittingly deep chuckle from the man’s gruff, whiskered lips.

What surprised me the most, however, was the exchange of coins that took place shortly after. The man who, just moments before, had been so eager to relieve us of our treasures, was freely giving his own to one of ours. As the two of them returned from their covert dealings, Wolfe and I presented them with puzzled looks. Before either of us could utter a single word of inquisition or defense, the bandit raised his musket once more.

“The fairy’s mine,” he stuttered. “The kid sold it to me, even.” I thrust my furiously disappointed gaze at Tif, and Wolfe followed with a similar distaste. Tif, however, was too absorbed in the joyful music of ringing coins to notice. With nothing to contest him, we stood idly by as he stuffed Elli into a musty sack and slung her dispassionately over his shoulder. Most disheartening of all, was Tif’s departure from our band. He continued past us, down the road, jangling his bounty alongside a thief who made sure to keep his firearm trained on us until they were both well out of our sight.

Wolfe was hysterical, and insisted that we hunt them down. With his fervor, I readily agreed, and we have been trailing the pair through the night. They appear to be heading to the small Wakers colony just ahead. Unfortunately, they will most certainly find more friends there than Wolfe or I. Wakers are nomadic, lawless men, whose wild and erratic revelry is said to be eternal. Sleep is a luxury these men have forsaken in the interest of pursuing their addictions. For some, this is paradise. For most, it is a curse that feeds hungrily on itself, driving many to madness. Some, even to the grave. For Wolfe, Margarine, and myself, this is an ill-fortuned wasteland all its own. Though it is one we are, each of us, willing to endure for the sake of our friend.

Day 17

Though I am always hesitant to celebrate prematurely, I believe it is safe to say that we have successfully escaped the clutches of the Uscedrian. The nightmares are becoming scarce, and the screams of a half-blind, flesh-eating marshland savage are but fading whispers. Sadly, my troubles do not end there, for I fear I may have broken one of my rib bones when the Uscedrian swatted me away like an insect. I took a small amount from one of Donovan Jynx’s potions – the one that cures ailments and poisons – but it never seemed to take effect. Tif offered to perform a Gypsy healing ritual, but Wolfe, being the consistently suspicious man he is, refused to let Tif touch me.

Finally, in a fit of self-proclaimed brilliance, Elli announced the arrival of an idea, and then fluttered off into the fog, trailed by my faint cries of warning. Within minutes, she returned with a most peculiar plant. She referred to the rounded mushroom as “bittleweed”, but its reddish glow was foreign to all of us. Elli told us that bittleweed, neither a mushroom nor a weed, is actually a type of dwarf tree. It tends to grow in areas high in moisture, due to its insatiable need for water. Upon Elli’s suggestion that I dissolve the bittleweed in a cup of wine, I grew as distrustful as Wolfe had been of Tif’s Gypsy magic. She insisted, however, assuring me that the wine was only to dillute the awful taste of the bittleweed. I conceded, and Wolfe assisted me in mixing the pungent concoction. I swilled the drink warily before closing my eyes and ingesting the whole cup in a single run.

Even with the wine, I could distinctly taste the repulsive, bitter plant, almost to the point of regurgitation. Thankfully, I was able to keep the drink, which resembled a mix of wormwood and rotten eggs, to the confines of my stomach. Although the healing took time, I dare say it worked. Applying pressure to my rib still hurts, as does breathing, but at the very least, the constant, driving pain has subsided. We are continuing along the Idean Pass, and nearing the Northeast border, where we shall find the Windfall Path, the Great Northern Route which will lead us to Ishimell. Normally, I would assume the remainder of our journey to be relatively uneventful, but given the past two and a half weeks, and Tif’s apparent love of minstrel songs, I am reluctant to presume anything.

Day 16

I am finding the difficulty of the day to be inexpressible. As the darkness of early morning passed overhead, we were still hiding out amongst the rocks of the marshlands. The Uscedrian was past us, now, still scouring the air for our scents. Though its physical trail was slipping away, its mental grip on Wolfe and myself was steadily increasing. Although it could not seek us out with its mind, it seemed to be emitting pulsating waves of neurological disturbances. Wolfe and I began seeing dreamlike images in our waking minds. The images that hailed before my open eyes became more than I could bear. Once I collapsed, I was no longer aware of my own body, though Wolfe told me later that I had been convulsing on the ground, foaming spit from my lips. The violence of my physical contractions mirrored my conscious nightmare well.

I was back home. I was arguing with my mother. Her soft, golden hair danced about her as she screamed her orders. I could feel the skin of my chubby, 10-year-old face burning in fury. “I hate you!” I shrieked, and once more, to make sure she knew. I never meant it. Not as I cursed her name, not as I stormed the room, not as I snatched up her favorite ceramic jar and hurled it with all my strength in a blind fit of rage. I never meant to hurt her, either. I felt my stomach twist into some intricate sailor’s knot as the delicately hand-crafted jar drifted through the air. I began sprinting towards her before it even shattered against her face. She collapsed, unconscious, to the dusty clay floor. My father was never home, always out drinking or drowning himself in a sea of women. I stared with the blank, teary eyes that all helpless children possess, as my mother wept tears of blood from her neck. There was nothing I could do. In the most dire time of need, there was nothing I could do.

I stumbled out the door and into the searingly bright sun. I ran to the nearest house my blurry eyes could distinguish. Bursting through the door, I found myself intruding on two shadowed figures enjoying dinner. The larger of the two rose to its feet and sprinted to my side. As it drew closer, I saw he was a handsome gentleman, with a kind face. Wrapping his arms around me, he asked what had happened, but I could tell him nothing, not because of the guilt, but simply due to the sheer horror.

He took me in his gruff, fatherly hands and placed me down in a bed of hay. He quickly ran outside, and I felt the whole earth beginning to spin and twirl. Before I lost consciousness, the other figure approached me from the table. She was a sweet, dark-haired young girl. A dirty blanket fell behind her, sweeping from her feeble hands to the cold, uneven floor. She eyed me curiously, but when I tried to greet her, managing only to spew a menacing groan, she hastily sprang from my presence. My head spun and collapsed with the world around it, spilling over into the empty blackness of the unconscious realm.

When I awoke the next morning, my eyes met those of the man who had taken care of me, and he introduced himself as Gerard. He understood when I was too weak to reply. Then his eyes fell deep into sorrow, and he apologized for what my father had done. I observed his solemn face with curiosity. He explained that the village guards had come to the scene and found my father drunkenly cursing the heavens and pacing angrily back and forth by my mother’s lifeless body. They had arrested him, but he furiously denied having anything to do with his wife’s vivid display of mortality. As a gesture of sympathy, Gerard invited to me stay with him and his daughter, Angela, for as long as I needed. I was too weary to argue with him on the matter, and so I agreed.

Over the next several months, amidst the turmoil of my mother’s funeral and my father’s execution, I escaped in my work around the house. I plowed the fields and planted seeds. I washed clothes and tended the small garden outside my window. I brought food home from market and helped Gerard with his candle-making. As the months passed into years, I grew to call that place my home, and its two beautiful tenants, my family. I was accepted as a son, but I was gasping for air.

I awoke in a soggy field, vomiting some thick, foamy liquid onto the grass. Tif was wildly shaking me, though he paused to reel at the sight and smell of my awakening. He was screaming and thrusting his finger toward Wolfe, who was unloading a quiver of arrows at a rapidly approaching Uscedrian. Tif helped me to my feet as I struggled to regain my composure. I drew the sword from my sheath and charged the beast headlong. It swung at me with its powerful claws, but I crouched below its clumsy attack, thrusting my sword up into its abdomen. The skin broke easily, and I found myself sprayed with an unpleasant mixture of Uscedrian blood and some other unidentifiable fluid. Enraged, the monstrous creature swatted me away with a single sweep of its arm. I lay winded and a good 50 feet from where I had been standing only a moment earlier. Seemingly unaffected, the Uscedrian removed my blade from its stomach and tossed it to the horizon like a Greek discus. Terrified, Wolfe took careful aim with his last arrow and sent it soaring into the Uscedrian’s right eye. It screeched its vicious response, and Wolfe wasted no time helping Tif and myself onto Margarine’s back. Once we were safely mounted, he quickly followed suit, and we took off to the Northeast, the trees and other landmarks guiding us along the Idean Pass.

We are taking a short rest for the night, but none of us wish to linger with the Uscedrian’s painful cries still echoing in the distance. A few of the others have somehow found the will to sleep. Personally, I have no desire to return to the unpleasantness of the dream world anytime soon.

Day 15

My heart sank as we neared the Western edge of the marshlands and the Idean Pass, for I knew what lie ahead. I was not expecting to be bothered by what lie behind us, though. However, as Wolfe turned to add some quip or possibly a word of encouragement, he paused and blankly stared past me. I turned, as well, and saw the Gypsy boy from yesterday sprinting toward us.

“No, no. Please not this,” Wolfe sighed. I massaged my twitching eyes and sighed in agreement. The boy, whose name he revealed was Tifka, pleaded excessively for us to allow his accompaniment on our journey, but I was still extremely hesitant. Wolfe – bless his soul for trying – simply began screeching at the poor boy, scolding him with harsh words I shall not reiterate. After I calmed both of them down from their childish rants, I restated my concerns for Tifka, but he was stubbornly adhesive to our cause. His face turned to stone when Elli, for only a fleeting moment, peeked her adorably plush face out from behind Wolfe’s back and added that Tifka smelt of “piss and vinegar”. No one thanked her for her contribution, and she grew aware of her impropriety. Instead of offering an apology, though, she simply ducked into a nearby quiver of arrows and hid.

I returned my attention to the eager boy before me. With a contemplative sigh, I agreed to bring him along, under the condition that he be responsible for himself. I had neither the energy, nor the capacity to take care of a horse, a fairy, and myself, as well as a boy. He agreed to my terms hastily, perhaps too hastily, but I had made a pact, and kept my end.

My first words to him as a fellow adventure were a stern warning: one of the path ahead of us. He tried to reassure me by recalling the many times he had visited the marshlands and brushed with the Uscedrian, his stories told with the self-piety every young boy expresses. Comparing Tif’s descriptions of the beast with other firsthand accounts, it became quite obvious that Tif had never seen the Uscedrian, and had most likely never even set foot in its swampy homeland.

As we all braved the sporadically cratered ground, pooling over with rotten sludge water and a rank odor, Wolfe and Tif exchanged tales of mischief. The lighthearted tone of their stories was distracting as I threw my entire being into focusing on my surroundings. The waters here did not teem with life, but rather, death. Small toads and fish lay dormant and half-dissolved in the pungent pools. As the day slipped casually into evening, an unfitting sunset burning passionately behind us, the unmistakably piercing shriek of the Uscedrian tore through the crisp, dry air. Looking left, to the perceived source of the unsettling noise, I saw the dimly lit outline of a towering creature in the distance.

I quickly ushered the group to a nearby field of rain-sculpted stone spires, and we hid, waiting for the Uscedrian to pass by, oblivious. We are still there, hiding in the uncomfortably revealing formation. The Uscedrian is sniffing the ground, the fog that lingers in the cooling dusk. I am seeing dreams in my waking mind, now, a symptom Wolfe has complained of, too. The Uscedrians presence must be the cause, and we can only hope that our troubled minds do not unleash any outbursts that would surely attract the attention of this looming monster, its salivating fangs dripping with bloodlust.

Day 14

Today was awash with exhilaration. A foamy, lite mist rolled in, as if from the sea, though the nearest body of water is the marshlands, and this mist was a wisp of pleasant odor, so the marshes could not have been the source. It was simply a phantom mist, that crept in and lingered until it grew tired of the Gypsy gossip, and left. It was fortunate, however, in that mist does not hold anything of value for the young Gypsy boys who scour the campground’s marketplace to steal.

Within 10 minutes of stepping foot in the camp’s outer ring of guardian tents, a small boy, about 8 or 9 years of age, ran past me tripping over my right foot and dramatically throwing himself to the ground. Well aware of Gypsy tactics, I checked the security of my coin-purse before the well-being of the boy. To my surprise the purse was still at my side, so I bent down and offered a helping hand to the young lad who, in a frump, swatted my palm away. He scattered off through the leaves like a frightened squirrel, and I turned to Wolfe with a comical smile. To my dismay, he was already a stone’s throw away, pursuing another young boy in a full sprint. By this time, Elli had completely disappeared, probably lost in the Gypsy wine spirits or perhaps stolen along with my purse.

I tugged gently at Margarine’s reigns, and we mildly sifted through the crowds, searching for Wolfe and our mystery thief. My sense of urgency reemerged, however, when I discovered Wolfe beating the young boy, almost savagely, while dangling him from his wrist. I fiercely seperated the two, stopping only to soak in the image of the young Gypsy boy. I suppose young man would be more fitting, for even at such a tender age, his rough face portrayed a chiseled maturity that most assuredly comes from a lifetime of self-dependence. His skin and hair were dark, more so than the rest of his community, a feature that made his deep blue eyes radiate from their sunken, malnourished husk.

“You’re knights, aren’t you?” he questioned.

“Better than knights,” I retorted. “We’re Dragon-slayers.” At this, he collapsed to his buckling knees and clasped his palms, as if in prayer.

“Please,” he begged, “let me go with you. I’m strong, and I can take care of myself.” The sincerity in his shimmering eyes was what bothered me the most. He reminded me of myself: eager – too eager – to leave the comforts home for adventure, and the horrors that accompany it. I told him he could not join us. I cited his age and the unfathomed dangers ahead as my reasons, though I kept secret my primary distrust of a young man who had only recently been caught stealing my valuables.

For the remainder of our brief excursion through the trappings of the Gypsy marketplace, he followed us, whimpering and uninvited. Wolfe and I made particular effort to ignore him, especially as we left the camp. He wandered with us to the very edge, and then stopped as we continued off over the hills toward the marshlands and the Idean Pass. At first, I disdained myself for denying such a lonesome child his chance at freedom, but all of the greusome visions I have witnessed came as a flood of memories. At this, I reassured myself that, in the long run, I most likely saved that boy from a disparaging death and his parents from a lifetime of grief. That is the only bit of comfort I bring with me into the marshlands ahead and the Uscedrian’s lair.

Day 13

In a desperate attempt to compensate for the lack of excitement yesterday and the day prior to that, the Fates have cursed us all.

It started this morning, as I was roasting some pheasant for our breakfast. It was a delightful variance from our usual meal of bread and a sip of wine. I was even boiling water to prepare a stew, when a wild stallion charged through our camp, spilling the scalding water across the back of my hand. I am ashamed to say that I used up the last of our healing potion to restore my hand to normal. Thankfully, the burns were so severe, that I felt nothing when I applied the remedy. However, we are only on the first leg of our adventure, and there is sure to be more need of medicine along the way. My only hope is that one of the nearby Gypsy encampments will have something that can help.

I always try to avoid the Gypsy grounds, as I, like most others, have found their inhabitants to be most untrustworthy. When they are not robbing you behind your back, they are doing it in plain sight with their excessive prices and stubborn negotiations. I am sure to lose what little gold and silver I have left there, but it is a cost I prefer to what we would risk later on without medicine.

There is a small Gypsy village just East of the Running Hills. That will be our first stop, and hopefully, our last. From there, we must make up for lost time by taking the Idean Pass through the marshlands. Festering cesspools of misery, the marshlands are home to a creature most foul: the Uscedrian. Having only traversed its homeland once, I was fortunate enough to never have encountered the beast. I can only pray that luck will be in our favor. I have heard torturous rumors of the Uscedrian’s powers. More than just mind or muscle, it possesses a supernatural quality that prey’s on the weak-minded and eats away at the soul. Unfortunately, we have lost too much time already, and every day we waste is another day the citizens of Ishimell are hopelessly fending for their lives. This quest, like all missions of its nature, is of the utmost urgency, and the Uscedrian is a risk we must endure for the sake of the innocent.

Day 12

I apologize once again for not posting yesterday. Nothing of real interest occurred, so I did not feel the need to weary you with tales of walking and talking. I will relay, however, some of the history of Alexander Wolfe as it was told to me on our uneventful journey through the Running Hills.

Wolfe was born in a small town called Aggamum, just North of Sudesh. I’ve been there once or twice, and I can say with confidence that it is a wonderfully average town. The people are affable, but only just. The dwellings are comfortable enough, and the food will carry you through to the next village. It is not a wretched place to live, but I can see why Wolfe had an urge to leave. And leave he did. When he was but 14 years of age, Wolfe absconded with what little money his parents had and set off for the nearest adventure. He longed for the renewing qualities of the open road, as I did when I was a young lad. He craved the excitement of uncertainty.

After 3 or so years of aimless wandering, Wolfe grew tired of his lifestyle once again. The adventures were never what he had dreamt of, and he longed for the companionship he had so callously dismissed. Angry and broken, he returned home, to find his village in ruins. Nothing but charred remains smoldered in the burnt grass. In tears, he ran to Sudesh to uncover the source of the horrors he had seen. The villagers told him that the lords had given the order. One of the families from Aggamum had been unable to pay their taxes, and so the nobility, furiously impatient, ordered the town be made an example. All the money was taken from the villagers, who were beaten, then tied in their homes and burned… still alive, still gasping for breath as the smoke billowed in, still crying out to their loved ones.

As he told me this, his eyes began to glisten in the daylight. He choked on his words, but he insisted on finishing. I felt terrible, but I insisted as well. I was compelled to know the rest of the tale.

After weeks of mourning, Wolfe settled in Sudesh, where he took a job as a blacksmith’s apprentice. He worked there until he was 21, and then he felt that same restlessness stirring in his soul once more. This time, he took only the money he had earned, and made his way down the Great Southern Route to the fishing colony of Maridene. From there, he sailed across the Fourd Sea and fell amongst foul company. He came to bond with the shipmates he sailed with and discovered that they managed a separate business, pirating. Intrigued, and suspecting that such a trade might offer the true adventure he sought, he readily joined their crew.

Not long after Wolfe enlisted, he was arrested by the King’s Royal Navy – I had no idea such a thing even existed – and tried for treason. Wolfe was condemned to death by quartering, a fate I once witnessed and wish to never see again. However, two days before he was to be executed, the judge who had given the order was found to have a severe case of dementia, and all judicial orders made under his court of law were rescinded. Thus, Wolfe was freed, and he immediately set sail for Maridene. Feeling as though he had entertained enough adventure for one lifetime, he returned to Sudesh to reestablish his old way of life.

It was about that time when he happened across Margarine, Elli, and myself. He told me that he still carries an itch to this day for adventure. Wolfe finished his story as dusk crept in above the horizon. The horses in the Running Hills were unusually quiet this season, but I was thankful for the rare peace as we journied through. And I think, for all his talk of excitement and revelry, Wolfe was, too.

Day 10

Before I begin, I wish to offer my deepest apologies for neglecting to post yesterday. I would also like to reassure you that none of us is dead, and we, in fact, added another traveler to our rank. Allow me to start from the beginning, as we left the Bloodwood Forest yesterday, before dawn…

The night was still heavy over the land as we emerged from the woods. I mounted myself atop Margarine, and Elli flew ahead of us, though I noticed she was careful not to stray too far in any direction. The country roads at night are practically breeding grounds for thieves, and I imagine some amount of breeding takes places along these corrupt and winding paths. It is rare to encounter more than a dozen other travelers when trekking between small towns so early in the morning. Although I put forth my fiercest façade, we found ourselves in the midst of a gang of rather unwholesome men.

Most of them brandished small daggers, though two of them wielded hefty broadswords in plain sight. I thought of simply riding away, since none of them had mounts, but they surely would have cut Margarine down, and that was not a sacrifice I was willing to make. So, I stood to face my attackers. As I dismounted, I did what any noble swordsman would do when faced with such odds: I let my fall bring me to a crouch, I let my hand swallow up a collection of dirt, sand, and rocks, and I let my… unorthodox tactics give me an advantage. Stepping in, I swung my hand, spraying a shower of blinding debris in my enemies’ eyes. I followed smoothly into a full turn as I drew my sword and sliced cleanly through one bandit.

The rest swarmed on me as children do on a bar of chocolate, or as the nobility do on a bar of gold. I felled two more – one with an upward strike to the shoulder, the other, by a thrust to the neck – before the arrow came. It descended for the mist above us, piercing the fog, then a thief. A terrible howling followed, that dug deeper under the skin than any arrow could, and it sent the bandits fleeing in all directions. Alert to the highest sense, though still somewhat terrified, I stood with my sword at the ready. Elli warned me of a figure approaching, and I turned to meet it.

A voice echoed from the mist, asking me if I was all right. I replied that I was, and the voice stepped out from the shadows, revealing a man. Upon asking his name, I learned he was a man known to many as Alexander. I was curious about his howling, and what purpose it served, aside from frightening thieves at night. He told me the howl was a play on his street persona, The Wolf. This confused me. Why the bow and arrow, then? It didn’t seem an appropriate tool for a wolf. He explained that the name was given him, on account of his last name being Wolfe. I thanked him, quite sincerely, for his assistance, and introduced myself. His eyes sunk back, deeper than they already were, and his face twisted itself into a shape of surprise.

“Your reputation precedes you, Gilgamesh Grotto,” he said with a grand wave and a bow.

I lingered on this for a moment before responding, “Nothing unsavory, I hope.”

“Of course not,” he quickly retorted. “Only the best.” At this, I could not help but to laugh. Alexander drew an inquisitive look across his face. I told him I was sure the stories told about me were exaggerations, and that I was, indeed, a simple man with simple tastes. He rebuffed this, claiming it to be a byproduct of my extraordinary humility, and, again, I fought to hold back an outburst of laughter.

I told Alexander, or Wolfe, as I’ve taken to calling him, the nature and purpose of my journey, and he offered to calm my nerves with a round of ales and a hot meal at the best pub in Sudesh (and there are many). It was an offer I could not refuse, and we quickly struck a brotherly bond as the morning grew nigh. We talked about a number of topics for most of the day, but Wolfe seemed particularly interested in Elli. He told me that he had never before laid eyes on a real fairy, and his excitement was barely containable. I regaled him with the plights of our current adventure thus far, and of the many I have taken over the years. Wolfe, for the most part, shared an open ear. He was slow to speak, and eager to listen to the details of my past. He would talk when I prodded him with questions or left him in silence. He seemed disinterested in the stories he told, as if he had told them too many times already.

As night once again fell upon us, Wolfe agreed to share a room at a local inn, and I asked him to consider joining our caravan. I knew we were in desperate need of assistance, and Heaven knows the human company would be a refreshing change from the previous week. We found a small tavern, nestled in the center of town, and boarded for the night. I found my rest there was far more invigorating than that which I had attempted  on rocky soil in cursed forests. I only awoke once in my slumber, in the early morning, to the soft whisper of voices. Elli was up conversing with Wolfe – about what, I have no idea. They seem to be getting along quite well, and for that, I am grateful.

Today has been spent almost entire in the market. I purchased enough rations to last our newly-expanded group another week. Margarine was able to quench her dry mouth from the public trough, and she even stole a feather from a woman’s headdress, mistaking it for a quick snack. The woman has yet to notice, and I am hesitant to confess. A hat is still a hat, without its decorations, I suppose.

We have stocked ourselves fully, our bags on the verge of spilling over. Everyone seems to be in good spirits as we set out on the road leading East from Sudesh. From here we will travel down to the Running Hills. Margarine will be among her own kind there, for it is home to hundreds of wild stallions. Luckily, Margarine will not be in heat during our days there. That is a mistake I will never make again.