Wanderer's Rest

It's strange how far you can go when you have no destination in mind.

The months after Goldshire blurred into a long, winding road north. I passed through places I'd only ever heard mentioned in passing. The Wetlands, with its endless grey skies and roads half-swallowed by marsh water. A dwarven outpost where I traded a story for a hot meal. A fishing village on the coast where I spent three days doing nothing but watching the tide.

I remember a night by a lake somewhere in the foothills — no fire, just moonlight and the sound of water. I was full of good ale and good company from a town I'd already forgotten the name of. A woman with kind eyes and no questions about where I'd been or where I was going.

We parted ways the next morning. No drama. No promises. Just two people who shared a warm evening and went back to their separate roads.

I thought about her longer than I expected to. But eventually even that memory softened into the background.

The coin from Sanders' treasure held out longer than I thought it would, but not long enough. I was careful at first. Then comfortable. Then careless. Good inns, good meals, good drinks. A few bad decisions and a few generous rounds for strangers who became friends for a night.

Old habits.

Now I'm in Hillsbrad Foothills. The air is cooler here, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant smoke. A few miles east lies Tarren Mill — or what's left of it. The Undead took it some time ago. I've heard stories from travelers passing through. Nobody goes there unless they have a death wish.

I found a small inn on the outskirts, far enough from trouble to feel safe. Cheap room, thin stew, and the kind of ale that reminds you why you usually drink something better. The innkeep is a tired woman who's seen too many seasons of hardship to bother with pleasantries.

There are whispers about the Syndicate operating in the area. Bandits, mostly, from what I can gather. They raid farms, shake down travelers, and generally make life miserable for anyone trying to live an honest life here. The locals speak of them in hushed tones — the kind of fear that comes from knowing there's nobody coming to help.

I listened, nodded, and ordered another ale.

It's not my problem. Not yet.

But my purse is getting lighter by the day, and the road ahead isn't getting any shorter.

I should probably find some work soon.