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[IamanElfCollaborator]

"Aladas damn it. Berry sniffling it is."

Wendell stooped low to the ground, looking for berry bushes. He couldn't really go on much longer without food, and heading to any nearby village might get him lynched.

Besides, it couldn't be that bad, looking for food, right?

Look for berries.

[monk12]

Anathema hesitates, not quite peering at the mysterious metal spike. Unidentified magical items can be quite treacherous, and one wrong move could spell death or worse. His mind is quiet, focused on the spike; for the first time since he emerged from his long sleep, there are no flashes of memory, no recollections of the forgotten past. No sparks in the darkness.

Clearly, Chaos saw fit for Anathema to encounter this device, but for what purpose? Knowing Chaos, it could be anything from a powerful defensive item, to a clever trap he should lead enemies into, to a broken, incomplete artifact highlighted for no particular reason at all. The headache is most troubling; illusions and attacks against the mind are the most difficult to react to, the most difficult to recover from. Hope for the best, and plan for the worst.

Groping for hazily remembered skills, Anathema attempts to shield his mind by crafting Superbia's Protective elements with Luxuria's Mind-altering effects. Assuming he does not mentally handicap himself, Anathema then tries to magically identify the spike, going so far as to retrieve it if there are no obviously hazardous consequences to doing so.

[Dwarmin]

Order

Rankar Alseroth braves the vine strew path with new bravery, using his spear to move the tendrils aside-sticky, long and dull grey vines the cling to his armor and fur like fingers. They feel vaguely...unclean. He squeezes through the narrow pass without incident, shrugging them off with a grunt-the stone of the mountain under his feet suddenly becomes warm and springy, like mud or clay. He can only assume this is some sort of hidden valley, though how it supports so much rampant growth he couldn't say. The natural world is full of wonders...and horrors.

He shelves his feelings and pushes on, realizing he can't really see anything beyond the wall of vines-after a few minutes of walking, he's not even sure which direction he was going. He tries to feel for a nearby stone wall only to feel nothing. Feeling for a clean path is simple, too simple really, and the vines do not really obstruct him as he moves generally in what he thinks is North.

Trebling this unease, he realizes there is always a simple path before him-relatively clean of obstruction and the quickest way forward. He has some wisdom though, recalls a certain old tale he head the humans tell in his village. About how the road to doom was paved with the prettiest of Primroses. The path is a shifting one-no matter how much he moves in one direction, it's infinitely easier to move in this direction. He's being guided to a certain destination...but why?

He stops in place, trying to decide what to do next.

The sea of stony vines closes tight about him, only offering the easy path forward.

Spoiler: Rankar Alseroth, Chosen of Order (click to show/hide)

Tier I
HP: 30/30
Combat: 1 die
Action: 1 die
Magic: 1 die
Skills and Traits: None
Equipment:
Steady Food Supply
Old Smithing Tools
Notebook and Quill

Northern-make Barbed Iron Spear *equipped*
Loose Iron Ringmail Shirt *equipped*
Iron Utility Knife
Known Spells: None

---

Ramus Thirdfallen shouts for his compatriots to up their weapons and shields-and just in time, too...a human like hand with blue scales grips the side of the small boat, and Ramus hacks at it with a resounding kiai shout. Dark-green blood stains the river, and everything begins to move a bit faster...

He counts at least five shadows in the water as they close in.

Spoiler: 5xShadows in the River (click to show/hide)

HP: 10

Combat dice: 1 die
Skills and Abilities: Aquatic/+3 to CD results roll if attacking non-aquatic units totally in water
Equipment: Claws and Spears/1d4, Scaled Hides -1 Damage

Spoiler: Allies (click to show/hide)

Albrecht
Tier 1 Warmage
HP 15/15
Combat: 1 die
Magic: 2 die
Action: 1 die
Skills and Abilities: None
Equipment:
Islander Hearthwood Staff *equipped*
Warmage Raiment
Known Spells:
Freezing Swords/Add a a +1 damage Ice enchantment to up to five allies weapons in an area, lasts one battle. Difficulty 4
Mending/Heals 1d6 Damage, Cures weaker poisons, diseases, stops bleeding. Difficulty 3
Force Bolt/An arrow of physical force potent against unprotected foes. Damage 1d6, difficulty 4

Curnrow
Tier 1 Swashbuckler
HP 25/25
Combat: 1 die
Magic: 0 die
Action: 2 die
Skills and Abilities: None
Equipment:
Islander Steel Cutlass *equipped*
Mercenary Leathers
Known Spells:
None

Boat
HP: 20/20
Combat: 1 Die
Skills and Abilities: Object you are floating on, cannot attack

Round 1

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Ramus Combat 5 vs Shadows
Ramus Hits! Damage 1d6+1=6

Curnrow Combat 3 vs Shadows
Shadow hits the boat! Damage 1d4x2=6

Albrecht Magic attack 7 vs Shadows
Albrecht hits! Damage 1d6+1+1x8=24

Two more Shadows strike the boat
Combat 3 vs 1 boat
Combat 2 vs 5 boat
Damage 1d4x2=8

Ramus hacks away the vile hand and watches the water boil. Feeling a premonitory vision, he takes a step back and avoid the lunge of the vaugely amphibian creature that lurches from the water to grab him.

Curnrow swings wide, cutting a swath through the cold waters, but curses as his desired target slips deeper.

Albrecht draws his hearthwood staff from this back and spins it once, gathering energy. A moment later, there is a flash of tremendous energy and pressure underneath the water-and two corpses float to the surface, ugly, bloated things-uglier in death. Large, dark eyes and ferocious teeth. Albrecht is pale, but his powers have never been proven stronger.

"...Not Icthys...what are these?" He says mildly, searching for more targets.

There are a number of unhealthy crunching noises from the timbers beneath your feet-it sounds like giant teeth gnawing on the wood! Water begins to pool around your ankles...

The oarman rows faster-Ramus thinks they might be able to wade in soon enough, but for a few more moments they are still in open water and strong current.

"Give me more time, lads!"

Spoiler: Ramus Thirdfallen, Chosen of Order (click to show/hide)

Tier I
HP: 30/30
Combat: 1 die
Action: 1 die
Magic: 1 die
Skills and Traits: None
Equipment:
Steady Food Supply
Family Painting
Street Clothes

Islander Iron Scimitar *equipped*
Leather Armor and Hooded Cloak *equipped*
Iron Bootknife
Known Spells: None

---

Solbryn Tylos confesses a certain truth to the Harpy, whose eyes narrow in an unreadable emotion...

[4-2=2]vs Difficulty 2:

"...Clanmother was right, Humans are bad. You're not my friend." She says-one moment tensing to spring...then reconsidering, a small smile smile touching her lips. She instead flees back into the treetops and flaps into the sky. A single red harpy feather falls through the treetops as mark of her passage, landing at Solbryns feet.

...and yet, he also notices the Harpy doesn't leave entirely-Aetha is still flying high above his general area in slow circles, the points of her eyes sparkling with a patient malice.

Spoiler: Solbryn Tylons, Chosen of Order (click to show/hide)

Tier I
HP: 30/30
Combat: 1 die
Action: 1 die
Magic: 1 die
Skills and Traits: None
Equipment:
Dwindling Food Supply
Strange Necklace
Worn down Clothes
Explorers Kit and Sundry

Jungleland Cleaver*
Rhinox Hide Armor *equipped*
Iron knife *equipped*
Known Spells: None

OOC: Uh, my thing with Filex went on longer than I planned. :X
I promise to update all players at one time as often as I can in the future.

[Shootandrun]

It was perhaps, Rankar decided, a little late to feel a sense of ominous doom. He was already well into the vines, and only now did he start feeling doubts, as if the path of steel which had been so clear earlier now seemed... Different. Dangerous. Now, however, he was very much neck deep in it, with only one easy path - the one going forward. Oh, he could probably force his way through those vines, be it by pushing them out of his way or cutting them down... But he was not certain how they would react.

It seemed strange to worry about that, but those vines definitely did not feel like normal vines. They seemed to have a mind of their own, blocking the way behind and opening the one forward - and that reeked of something unnatural. He was not certain that if he started cutting them down they would not turn against him and strangle him. There was an unnatural aura about them, an energy he had no desire to pit against his own strength.

The only path left was the one forward. Where it would lead him, he did not know. He was afraid. That was a good thing - with the things he could feel and his situation, only a fool would not be afraid. Fear was a warning, a constant reminder, and there was no shame in embracing it. It must not be allowed to rule over one's body, but it could put things into perspective. Still, his fear was not going to stop him now.

He was a Kasar. Perhaps it was his pride talking again, but he believed the things in this part of the world that could put one of his kind in danger were few and far in-between. He had finally found purpose, after years seeking it, and he would not be turned around by vines and a strange path. Two things could be waiting forward - danger, or success. If it was danger, he would fight it until the danger was no more. If it was success, then he had to press forward to reach it.

And so, press forward he did. He took one step along the path, and then another, and again, until he was walking at the same rhythm he had been before stopping. Let danger come, he thought. He may fear it, but he would not be defeated by it.

[Digital Hellhound]

((I decided not to wait for Knave because everyone's separate anyway.))

Chaos

Wendell Madryt

 Still hungry, Wendell decides to try his luck with berries instead. They are something he knows about, at least. The titanswood is home to poisonous or simply inedible varieties that Wendell's learned to avoid. His goblin's stomach prefers meat, of course, but he can survive on plants alone... for a time.

With his gaze to the ground, Wendell moves through the forest, seeking out places where blueberries or isleberry grow. Almost mocking him, small prey animals seem to emerge from the underbrush everywhere, showing no fear of him. Focused on the hunt for berries, Wendell ignores them.

The forest is vibrant in its own way, and Wendell has no trouble finding berries to eat. He settles down at a large patch and begins eating, his sharp teeth making short work of the little things. Soon enough, he's satisfied, if a bit nauseous due to his species. A silence falls upon the woods again, broken only by his breathing and faint noises - birds singing in the distance, animals moving in the vegetation. Wendell perks up when he hears something heavy snap a twig, but before he can look he hears the whoosh of mighty wings and an eagle with feathers of brilliant red and gold flies into his clearing, nearly smashing into him.

The eagle lets out a long bird cry and flies around the clearing for a few moments before settling down on the soft ground opposite from Wendell. It stares directly at him, cocking its head.

Spoiler: Wendell Madryt, Chosen of Chaos (click to show/hide)

Tier I
HP: 30/30
Combat: 1 die
Action: 1 die
Magic: 1 die
Skills and Traits: None
Equipment:
   *Old Crossbow (1d6+1 damage)
   *Boning Knife (1d6-1 damage)
   *Pouch of Coin
Known Spells: None

Anathema

 Taking a deep breath, Anathema tries to remember. The Art, they called it - magic. Power over creation. Power to change the world, power born out of want and will. Seven Arts, seven falls, seven sins... and an Eight, he realizes. But he has never had any dominion over that. He doubts anyone in countless cycles has.

[6] He crafts Superbia and Luxuria, old memories guiding his hand. But... something is missing. He sees the patterns he wants, clear as the day, a mental shield against any attack, but they dissolve, fading away into nothing, as he tries to form them.

But this awakens something in his mind. Memories begin flashing in rapid succession. Names. Places. The words to say, for focus, the things to do, the patterns to make. A specific memory floats to the surface, as vivid as if he was experiencing it now. [2]

A woman, fierce and beautiful, her dark eyes staring defiantly right into his as he raises his arms. She betrays no fear. Anathema sees the spell forming, sees it drift towards her, ghostly tendrils of falselight only the gifted can see. He realizes what will happen when it locks around her, but cannot stop it even if he wished.

She lasts for a second or two. Then the pain overwhelms her and she screams and screams again, falling to the ground, her arms powerless to stop her, writhing on the ground, her face contorting violently. Tears begin to form in her eyes, but the spell continues, filling her with pain far beyond his imagination. The moments pass, the woman's pain filling the world. In the end, it fades away. The woman sobs, breathing frantically.

'Please... please...' she begs, but Anathema feels his hands rise again...

The memory breaks slowly, gradually, leaving Anathema back at the black spike in the ruined city. He blinks, seeking his memory for explanation. What sort of person was he, to know such a spell?

The spike remains, if Anathema wishes to approach without his mind sealed. He could try again, or throw caution to the wind - it doesn't seem likely a weapon or a trap would be left in a public city street, if that was what this is - and go on regardless.

Spoiler: Anathema, Chosen of Chaos (click to show/hide)

Tier III
HP: 50/50
Combat: 3 dice
Action: 3 dice
Magic: 3 dice
Skills and Traits: None
Equipment:
   *None
Known Spells:
   *Unknown [Difficulty: 5]
   *Pain - AVARITIA [Difficulty: 6]
   *Unknown [Difficulty: 6]
   *Unknown [Difficulty: 7]
   *Unknown [Difficulty: 10]

[monk12]

Anathema licks his lips, scrabbling at the ragged edges of his memory. That woman... not a spark, but a bonfire throwing up embers of memory. Blue silk curtains sway in the breeze, providing shade from the sun. Ephemeral motes, twitching away from his clumsy grasp. A dull knife with an ivory hilt, unadorned but used often. His knife. Images flash faster than he can recognize, faster than he can catalogue, slipping away with no chance to hold them. Another woman, short and round, with black hair and a disapproving sneer. The embers fade, but the fire remains. Not a spark, and no longer a bonfire. It remains as a torch in the shadows of his mind, illuminating some small fraction of his missing memory. A woman he tortured, and the spell he tortured her with. Please... please...

Anathema jerks back to himself, standing in the ruined street. He scowls, plucking at his shirt absently. Who was she? She must be important somehow, for him to pity her even as he tortured her. The torture is not so much of a much; a tool to be used like any other. But tools are used for a purpose; a hammer pounds nails to build, a quill draws ink to write, a sword hews flesh to kill. A man tortures a woman...

Anathema is startled from his musings by a shriek from the jungle, a group of monkeys raising a clamor. Some jungle cat snarls, and there is silence. Anathema shakes his head, setting his musings aside as he returns his focus to the spike. His fingers itch to try his defensive magic again. One can never be too careful, and it seems magic may be the key to reclaiming more of his memories. And yet... though it seems like he should know the pattern he wants for this spell, he still failed his first attempt. Failing to properly channel magic can be almost as dangerous as being on the wrong end of an attack... maybe. The spike might be dangerous, but it isn't aggressive; no attack has come yet. Remembering would be wonderful, but... how long had he stood here staring at nothing, trapped in memory? Only moments, surely, but what if the next episode is longer? What if the next memory is... worse?

A risk he must take, but perhaps not yet. Not now, in this place. Cautiously, Anathema reaches out with his magic, attempting to magically identify the spike.

[filiusenox]

Bryn mutters something bitterly, before setting off through the forest, being silent, inconspicuous, careful as she stalks along, trying to avoid the worse of the thorny plants and biting insects that plague the jungle, and, of course, failing at it. Finally, she comes upon an impasse of thorns, vines, snarled trees and other unsavory plants.

With a heaving sigh, she flops down on the soft, fertile dirt, rubbing an already sweaty, raggy sleeve over her forehead. She leans against a thick redwood, closing her eyes for a few moments, before the thought of that wretched bird still being around flickers into her tired, hungry mind.

And, just like that, she's back on her feet, this time searching for the tell-tale traces of animals; burrows, leavings, markings. Drawing out the knife and searching for some sort of edible meat and any type of berry.

[Dwarmin]

Rankar Alseroth takes the path ahead of him, unwilling to turn aside, and perhaps unable to turn back.

After about an hour travelling by the suns movement, the path dips once more, and the wall of vines opens into a small clearing...

Though the vines carpet the outer floor of the clearing, he can make out a distinct circle of jet black, irregular stones lay in the ground in front of him-making a ring of a sort that encircles four somewhat ominous Plinths, also made of the same black stone stone. The stony grey vines do not touch anything inside the clearing. Each plinth has a stony emblem on it's edge that seems to represent a cardinal direction-north, south, east and west. They are about Kasar sized, and to his curiosity, they seem to be used for collecting some sort of liquid-large hand shaped indents set upon the face of each lead to a bowl, which drains into small clear cut channels that radiate steadily downward into the center of the clearing...where in lies a dark fissure. A small wisp of smoke rises from the fissure, but he can see nothing within.

Carefully treading around, he notices the outer edge of each plinth also has an inscription-in the common language he can understand. He reads them all.

A BOUNTY OF SPRING LIES BEFORE YOU
BUT TO PICK A ROSE
ONE MUST RISK THE THORNS

THE SUMMER IS RELENTLESS AS THE CONFLICT IT BRINGS
A TIME OF HEATED PASSION AND JUSTICE TAKEN IN ANGER
SHOW ME YOUR STEEL, BE IT SWORD OR PLOWSHARE

AUTUMN IS TIME TO REFLECT
PLANTINGS END, REST FROM BATTLE
LOOK WITHIN, AND SHOW ME YOUR HEART

WOE TO HE WHO WOULD ASK THE WINTER FOR TIDINGS
A BITTER HEART BRINGS A BITTER STRENGTH
WILL THOU GIVE A GIFT OF BLOOD, AND ENDURE THE NORTH WINDS WRATH?

Rankar scratches his chin. It's clear to step into the circle and place his hand upon into one of the indents would certainly do...something...

Interestingly, another path in the vine wall has opened in the opposite from where he entered. More likely than not a way out. That seems to be the way of this place.

----

Solbryn Tylos hungry and apprehensive, begins a desperate search for food...

[1-1=0]vs Difficulty 4:

The jungle mocks Solbryn with it's lush greenery. Most of which is inedible, or he knows would drop him dead on the spot. Of animals, he finds plenty of leavings...but no trace. He cannot escape the feeling they are all around him, though. Waiting for her to drop. Waiting for Solbryn to collapse. Waiting for...

Aethas voice rings out over the treetops.

"You look hungry, Human." She says mockingly from her perceh. "My advice? Try one of the blue spiky fruits on that bush beside you. They are delicious. Or perhaps they are poison, and I am lying. Or perhaps I am making you pass up your last meal, so you will grow even weaker with hunger. It will be interesting to see which you choose."

There is indeed some sort of fruit bush beside Solbryn, a variety he has never seen before-each fruit about twice the size of an apple, deep blue in coloration, studded with dull spikes that look like they could be peeled off. The fruits look quite juicy, though. There are small white flowers speckled here and there along the trunk and branches, and they smell quite good.

Stamping the ground, Solbryn somewhat marvels at such a large plant growing in such a poor and dry patch of soil. She at least knows soil, after all...

[filiusenox]

"Is it really now? How quaint." is Bryn's simple, curt reply, as she slips on a glove, still keeping the knife in her offhand in case that wretched bird tried something. She approached the bush, looking it over, eyes drawn to the dry, very dry soil in this particular patch of jungle, which, as far as she could recall, had been quite muggy and moist. With a flick of her wrist, a fruit was parted from it's stem, and she looked it over carefully, peeling the skin away to get at the juicy innards.

"So this poisons me, you said?" she asked, turning to watch her stalker, waiting for that insipid little bird to open her mouth, before winding back and throwing it at the target said mouth presented.

"It's quite insulting that you think I'm that stupid as to be swayed by your words." she said, tensing up for the harpy's response to her gesture.

[Shootandrun]

Riddles and cryptic words upon strange stones. Rankar examined them all attentively. He recognized the symbolism brought by the words easily, but he did not know what to make of them. Where they an indication that he must choose the one most like him? Or where they simply a warning of the consequence to come? Whatever it was, he could sense there was something deeply unnatural behind it. He could still turn back.

And yet, the path of steel had lead him there. He was meant to be in this place. He was meant to choose. Spring, he did not care for - he was no longer young, and he associated the season with youth and new life. Summer he did not feel connected with either - thought and patience were what made him who he was, what separated him from the brutes bearing the name of Kasars who turned to savagery in face of adversity. Autumn and winter, he did not immediately know which to eliminate. He liked to reflect, of course, but there was a certain appeal to the words of the northern stone. A bitter heart, and a bitter strength.

Nothing was ever achieved refusing to make a choice. Bracing himself, he stepped within the circle and put his hand on the Northern Indent.

[Dwarmin]

Rankar Alseroth places his hand in the Northern receptacle-trusting in providence and his own wisdom, that he has made the right choice.

He immediately feels a painful wince as something terribly vital is drawn from him into the stone. Blood? Or life itself...?

The pain increases tenfold even as he processes the thoughts. The warmth of his body is slowly being leeched, drained into the pit-a bright line of crimson slowly edges toward the smoking pit.

A small voice echoes from somewhere within the pit.
Vitacae, the essence of the spirit. It is all you are and ever will be, and the herald of all your bloodline to come. This is the price of our power. We paid, first with our own lives...and then others...

-5 HP

Terrifyingly, he can now feel something like a living icicle working it's way up his arm.

Into his chest.

Toward his heart.

----

Solbryn Tylos hucks the fruit at the mouthy bird.

[4-1+1=4]vs Difficulty 3
[5+1=6]vs Difficulty 5

It smacks her in the chest, exploding into bright purple fruit juice. To put it gently, she's now a syrupy mess, screeching and cursing you.

"...you dirty Human! That was...a..nas...ty...tri..."

Before she can finish her sentence, Aetha goes limp and tumbles from the tree, landing on the ground with a soft bounce. Solbryn approaches carefully, knife in hand.

Huh.

The Harpy seems to be more or less asleep, her breathing steady and otherwise completely senseless. After a moment, her form begins to waver-and shrink, decreasing in size and mass rapidly. In a moment, she's gone from roughly Human sized to roughly mouse sized-though she seems unharmed otherwise.

So that's what the fruit does. Interesting.

Good thing you didn't take a bite!

[Xantalos]

| YOU SHALL NOT PASS ON THIS DAY, CHAMPION | TAKE HEART AND DRAW STRENGTH | YOU SHALL YET LIVE |

Order floods Rankar's body with unearthly strength, giving him fortitude enough to endure the force (1 IP).

[Shootandrun]

Rankar recoiled from surprise and fear, but he did not remove his hand. Instead, he growled and shook, furious and afraid at the same time... And he stood his ground, never removing his hand. He had made his choice - now, he must live with it. Still, that did not mean he would allow this easily.

"Go on. Try and take whatever you will. I will not let go without a fight."

He did not know what he was taunting, but he believed it was better than nothing. With those words, he gathered his willpower to resist the assault.

[filiusenox]

Bryn's eyes widened at the effects of the fruit, watching the sleeping harpy shrink until she looked like a small bird, instead of the soaring beast she once was. A small pang of guilt- haha- formed in his heart at the site of the creature, and he kneeled down, scooping up the little thing and placing her into an open pouch, which he sets next to himself.

And with that done, he abruptly sits, pulling out the little map and drawings and doodles on a wide, thick, folded bit of straightened parchment. He draws forth his quill, scribbling down any details about the plant in shorthand code in a dead language(which he kept a small translation book of and knew by heart by now. It was called the mapper's script in his homeland.)

Once he finished noting down anything and everything about the mysterious plant, he picked a number of fruit, with his gloved hand, making sure to package them carefully so nothing of his shrank mysteriously or worse, he passed out and shrunk along with the harpy.

Note down everything about the plant using the cartographer's kit on the margin of the jungle map. Take several of the fruit, nearing, but not quite ripe, being sure to handle them carefully and with a gloved hand. Secure the Harpy in a separate pouch, which he holds by his side, and set out for Spearmount, using the sun and a compass(if I have one).

[Dwarmin]

Rankar Alseroth feels a surge of energy as his protector extends a singular iota of willpower. A lingering, fragmentary thought from the very creation of time and space...

Though the power does nothing to lessen the pain, the voice becomes clearer in his mind. The cold tendril sinking into his chest no longer inspires panic...but a cold realization. He is gaining something of a spiritual boon at the price of his physical form. What he loses he will never gain back. What he gains he will only have this chance to do so.

The small voice speaks again, clearer and stronger. Though now it sounds like many voices.

We could only take what was offered. The more we offered the more we gained. The more we gained, the more we hungered to offer...

+5 HP (now 30/30)

Rankar now feels he must make a definite choice-to refuse this gift outright, or maintain his grip and accept all that is to come. For the moment, his strength is still with him.

----

Solbryn Tylos makes a few careful notes-the toxicity of the soil, the color and shape of the fruit and flowers, their smell and the size of the seeds that have dropped off. He feels he would know this plant inherently if he saw it again.

Then, carefully (oh so carefully) he gathers some of the smaller, drier fruits and stores them in his left pouch. The right pouch then holds a tiny and still helpless Harpy, who has not awoke yet.

Feeling a bit of a better mood, Solbryn takes her compass, figures her general area and begins moving in the direction of Spearmount...

[5+1=6]vs Difficulty 3
[9]

...

A half day later-the sun is beginning to grow a dark orange, Solbryn spots what she was looking for the whole time, the path she lost originally.

The old Imperial highway...not that it's much of a thoroughfare anymore-you couldn't drive most wagons over it-but it is a straight path to Spearmount along the shore, with scant civilization along it's edges-though they are not always friendly, or eager to be found. She can already hear the morose gull cries echoing on the west wind, and the gentle waves of the beach. A sure sign she's close to the shore, and better than starving in the jungle.

The Empire may be long gone, but they made good roads at least.

She hears another tiny bird cry from within her pouch, albeit more angry than morose. It started an hour ago and hasn't stopped since.

"Let me out of this sack, you...Human! Lemme go!"

Ignoring it at the immediate moment, Solbryn looks to the distance and can see a few lines of campfire smoke a ways to the South along the highway. Habitation, of a sort. Another days travel and she'll be in Spearmount...