Riding hard, the Biscuits travelled down the well-marked road between Dunn and Bren. According to Wed's map, the best way from here was north east to Rocktop, then through the Hestmark Highlands towards Medegia.

The weather was becoming chilly, and large orange squash were about the only things still left in the fields of this region. The party camped in another travellers rest, labeled for the county of Brennathar. Gimar was discussing the route as Little John worked on the fire.

Nicola slept well and dreamed of the tall and relatively young mountains as Wed and Yodavan took the first watch. In her dreams, she was obviously east of the Glorioles Range, watching the setting sun through their craggy peaks.

In the dusk, she turned back to the east, and with a slight blur was suddenly amidst a scene of devastation. Around her stood ashes and ruins. To her right hand, a blast-charred pile of skeletal remains. To her left hand, a crowd of zombies turned away from her, as if sensing Pelor's light. And yet she was drawn forward.

In the midst of the city lay another ruined temple, this one little more than a circle of columns. Within lay a tiled floor fractured by vines. The patterns in the tile resembled runes or glyphs, and in the center of the floor was a statue.

The statue's body was that of a man, but the head and feet were that of a vulture. A snake circled the right arm, and the left arm was that of a skeleton.

Disturbed, Nicola tried to awaken, but could not. With a great wrenching sensation, the statue vanished. The temple was now whole, lying near the center of a large walled city. Buildings of moderate height stood all around, and the people of the town hurried to and fro.

But Nicola's gaze was drawn upwards. There, at the apex of the roof which covered the columns, was the glint of a gem.

A gem of true seeing . . .

 

Gimar rode and thought to himself.

The druid and Little John angled their horses over towards Gimar.

The party reigned in and after a quick stabling were sharing the farmers stew, in exchange for strong drink. Soon the whole party was quite merry, and the minstrel was spinning tales.

Nobody in the party had, and he began his tale.

The Walker is a man, to be sure, but no tale of him would be complete without mentioning the dog that's always by his side. Other than that, he travels alone. His clothes are of a rough nature and no particular fashion -- they are travelling clothes. His possessions are surely few, for he carries them in a small sack tied to the end of a staff that he leans on his shoulder.

Speaking of staves, there was one time that an army regular, well into his cups, decided to prove his valour by taking a poke at him. The story of the rest of his company is that the Walker merely vanished. I'd have written this off as another legend except for the fact that the army man's sword was gone, replaced with only a branch of crooked wood.

I don't think it likely that the Walker is well experienced, for he appears to all who have seen him as a fairly young man. Some who have seen him say that tiny lines near his eyes prove him older than that.

So my friends, when you are next travelling to the north and east, near the town of Mentrey, you'd best be kind to the travellers you meet and greet.

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