Chapter 10, Northbound

He opens his eyes and is greeted by darkness.  It is still many hours before the dawn, but sleep for this night has ended, so he decides to get up and begin the day.  Climbing out from under his sleeping furs he crawls through the entrance of his small travelling tent and into the chill of the night.  Stiffly, he stands, then bends and stretches to relieve the kinks that come from sleeping upon the damp ground; it is not exactly comfortable, living primitively, and can be hard on the body.

He slowly strides over to the fire-pit and, grabbing a stick, stirs the small bed of coals back into life, adding the necessary fuel for the small fire to sustain itself.  The fire brings with it a welcome warmth and the man basks in the feeble glow, attempting to drive the chill out of his travel weary bones.  It seems like he has been on the move forever, yet he feels he still has very far to go.

The man (though he rarely thinks of himself as such) has maintained this existence for the better part of four years now; staying away from people whenever possible, always alert to the presence of others.  Normally, when he finds other people he sneaks quietly away, melting into the forest, making no sound and leaving no trace of his presence.

On the rare occasions that he does not have the opportunity to do this and is forced to interact he always does so from the greatest distance possible, making sure that his face is covered, giving no one the chance to see him, not allowing anyone to know him.  He speaks as little as he can, asking few questions and giving little in the way of answers; it is not that he likes being like this, but he has found it a necessity.

He feels no loneliness, but he knows he is alone; the company of others hasn't been important to him for quite some time.  There was a time in his life when it mattered a great deal, but no more... those days are gone.  He walks the lands for the sake of walking them, with neither purpose nor goal.  His life, though it may seem simple, has seen great complexity and there are a multitude of reasons why the man is the way he is; outside of the place he once called home, only he knows his past.

He wraps his black cloak tighter about himself, trying to ward off the pre-dawn chill.  Walking over to the nearest tree he unties a knotted rope that holds his pack suspended over a limb, keeping his meager possessions safe from prowling animals.  From within the container he brings forth a small pot, which he fills with water from his water-bag and places on a stone near the fire to heat it.

The water is soon hot and he puts various herbs and vegetation, some dried, some recently foraged, into the pot to steep.  Spruce needles, marjoram, chicory, and a few linden flowers for a touch of sweetness.  Using one of his gloves as a potholder he pours some of the contents of the pot into a battered tin cup.  Bringing the cup to his lips the man smiles briefly; the first warm taste is always so satisfying.

Once again rummaging through his pack he brings out a small parfleche, a satchel specifically made for carrying meat, and removes the other half of the rabbit he had for dinner the night before.  Using a green stick he skewers the rabbit half and puts it over the hot coals to cook and is soon greeted by the wonderful aroma of roasting meat.

While the rabbit is cooking he begins breaking camp and packing his few belongings, readying himself for another day, or more, of travel.  He'll eat on the move this morning, he has stayed here long enough.  Finishing his tea he tosses the dregs into the forest and puts the cup and pot into his pack, which he settles onto his back, the now all too familiar weight feeling like an old friend.  He grabs the green stick holding his cooked breakfast and hastily kicks dirt onto the fire, extinguishing it, and walks into the darkness, in a generally northerly direction, gnawing upon his cooked rabbit.

As the dawn begins to lighten the sky behind the mountains to the east he pauses for a moment to gaze in wonder and awe at the view.  Deep violets, burgundies, oranges and pale yellows mingle against the puffy clouds over the mountains, creating a breathtaking sight; another dawn in Elanthia, and something he never tires of witnessing.

He has been heading north for weeks now, almost as if he has been drawn that way.  He does not hurry his journey, maintaining a steady mile-eating stride that is neither tiring nor lax but nevertheless covers distance with surprising speed.  He can maintain this pace indefinitely, as he was taught and trained to do.

He stays away from the roads as much as possible, preferring to travel cross-country, bushwhacking when necessary.  He forages as he travels and knows he won't go hungry; the forest provides a bounty of edibles as long as one knows where to look.  It's mid fall and there is still ample food to be had, fruits and berries, nuts, greens of various kinds, mushrooms and bracket fungi, and he has his longbow which he uses regularly for various animals, from squirrels to larger game, such as stags and wild boar.

As he settles into his daily routine of walking his eyes are in constant motion, aware of his surroundings.  He comes across a small stream and uses the opportunity to re-fill his waterbag.  There are some cattails here as well and he harvests the young shoots and a couple of the rhizomes that serve as the root for the plant.  The younger shoots, when lightly boiled, are rather asparagus-like in both taste and texture and the rhizomes serve as a starch, but are best par-boiled and then roasted over a fire.

There is wild sorrel, chicory, and dandelion greens; together, with a few wild onions, this will make a nice salad.  Wild carrots and wild parsnips with a few more wild onions make for the beginnings of a fine stew; add a squirrel or two and it's a meal fit for a king, but it will serve just as well for a ranger, alone in the wild-lands.

Everything he gathers goes into his travelling satchel or his pack.  He takes only enough for his evening meal and he never takes the last of anything; this insures that whatever he has foraged will soon recover from his culling.  He nibbles on assorted things he finds as he travels, an occasional walnut or an apple, things of that nature.  He does not stop for lunch; he keeps moving north... always north.

He has traveled far for one so young, leaving all he knew at the tender age of seventeen.  He has made his living working in trade caravans, as a woodsman, he even tried his hand at being a mate on a fishing skiff, but chronic and violent seasickness brought that endeavor to a sudden end.  He has worked as a skinner and served as a bodyguard for a rather colorful and somewhat less than honorable merchant.  All of these were temporary arrangements though, a means to an end.

The man had heard of the town of Wehnimer's Landing years before.  He heard that people with adventurous spirits were welcome there, that it was a free town, and anyone could do well there.  To a man like him, with neither home nor family, this sounded too good to be true, so he filed it away in the back of his mind.

So, with nothing to do except travel, he remembered the stories he had heard and decided to make the journey.  He knew the trip would be arduous, but what in life worth having wasn't?  Gathering some meager supplies and equipment that he knew he could not get in the wilderness he set out, hoping to find a better life, a life of acceptance of who and what he was, a life free from his past.

Perhaps Wehnimer's Landing will give him all of those.  Maybe he will finally catch a break, luck may yet smile upon him.  And if it doesn't, there is always the road, leading to somewhere else, and something new.