xxxxxxxSleeping alone was dangerous most of the time. The likely hood that any number of vile beasts, man or monster, was almost a certainty every night underneath this countries skies. But how long could all of them keep running really? Everything had to sleep sooner or later. What was one to do with such an impossible situation? It was simple, or atleast he though so. Which is why he was still alive. It was all depended on the right combination of running, climbing, searching, and a smiggin of wits that allowed even the loneliest of roaming souls to survive the wildness. What is this solution, you might heard ask? Sleep whenever possible and always pick the place few can access. For instance, the spaces under rocks, or in the trees, or in a boat set adrift. No one ever said that these places had to be suitable for sleep, only that they are inconvenient for ambush. In all truth, it paid to have company wherever you decided to travel but it was useful to be able to live alone too. Which is how Marco had arrived here; in Lenti.
xxxxxxxMore specifically, he was drifting nearer and nearer to the village nested in the rocks, allowing the waters of the lake to carry his unconscious body about on its whims. A small fishing boat ,his chariot, only big enough to fit a man and child had become his mobile outdoor tavern. Through the wood the lake water had found its way and now a layer of moisture had coated the bottom of the craft. And still, Marco wasn't ready to stir from his glorious slumber, perfectly comfortable with the slight bit of water nibbling at the side of his face and crawling into his clothes. It was merely another thing that you had to compartmentalize and ignore. Marco deserved such peaceful rest after all he had to go through to get to this point. Of course, he wouldn't spin the tale quite so colorfully as many any adventurer would, but Marco's travels weren't something to forget. His tale was one that started many years before, back in the peaceful land of Westerwood, a land he could have called home if such a place could exist for him anymore. To say that he had chosen to set out on his journey across the great expanse isn't said without utter a lie. Replacing 'chosen' with 'forced' would get you closer to the reality but a perfect word to tie it all together would be to say that he had 'found the opportune moment' in which to leave behind what he had thought he had known in exchange for searching and discovering what he didn't, though making it sound like that just glorified more than Marco would carry to admit. To summarize, Marco had known he was not wanted in his village and to travel seemed to best way to solve the violently nagging problem that plagued him constantly. And so without much thought otherwise, he left, taking with him all he needed. This, of course, soon became much more difficult that he had first anticipated. Granted, he wasn't as seasoned as he was now and many mistakes were made with many days spent in search of answers that would never be given to him. It was a year along that he was able to finally get to a point where he could truly call himself a traveler.
xxxxxxxBut this story would take much longer to tell than the shore had time to give, as the boat drew closer to beaching itself. Instead, it would be much more prudent to relate how he came to find his travels here, in this boat upon the Lake Lentia, drifting along all by his lonesome. It was a few weeks ago, somewhere in Dreywood, that a small caravan, aided by a company of pathfinders, sought to find passage through the perilous mountains that made up Racluear. Among them was Marco, a humble traveler who had proven to be a capable member of the group. However, there was much debate about what path they should take. On one side, the path through the mountains on the edge of Dreywood, where the mountains were their thinnest, and on the other, the path up through Pilantos and Cliffrock. For what? Bethryl, of course. Much discussion between the pathfinders and the caravan leader ensued, ending in many stalemates and disagreements. In the end the caravan had become divided, some trusting the pathfinders' ability to escort them through the mountains safely and the others through the wastes and around the various beasts that lived there. Marco decided that the shortest path was more suitable than the one that had more potential to getting him killed. Many agreed with him, while others chose take their chances with beasts killing them over sharp rocks and long drops. And so they parted ways and his journey through the mountains began. The journey wasn't as peaceful as many had hoped. The third night they faced a tough torrent of winds that forced them to cling to the sides of rocks. Some prayed that demons would not come to grab them and through them off the side of the cliff. He assured them that the only thing that could through them off this mountain was a foolish misstep, not a demon. And while many admired his directness, other found his lack of faith unsettling, which made warm company lacking most nights. Still, they traveled for a week and a half more. It was when they had began their descent that many of the troubles started.
xxxxxxxIt is no lie that monsters lurked among the ridges of the Racluear's high rock faces, peering downward at them, haunting their steps and bidding their time, waiting until they had the advantage, waiting for when their strike would be the only one needed to. Night feel in the mountains quickly, covering the land in a great darkness in a matter of minutes. Thankfully, their guide was seasoned enough to acknowledge the need to stop and rest, even if they were so close to the end of their journey. It was the last that many of the caravan would get to see. With details covered in shade and chaos, Marco didn't know exactly had happened, only that he was of the last remaining after it all. He remembered howls and fast breathing, but it was in his own policy to forget names and faces that would not survive to help him in later. It was a horrible way of looking at life, he was told, but then he had been alive this long because he saved everyone that had ever been attacked. There were reasons one traveled alone, but for this time he was glad he didn't. The remaining few, didn't sleep soundly for the rest of the trip, though they did not see the beasts again, though heard their tongue across the wind. They reached a village beside the lake, parting way with the rest, some solemn and harrowed by the experience while others, him included, exhausted but otherwise unshaken. It was here that he boarded the small fishing boat. It was that finest, borrowed boat he had ever had the chance to pilot to be sure. Thankfully, the man who owned it didn't mind when he took it; he still had rest of the night to sleep peacefully before he did. Assured Marco was that the boat was serving a good purpose under his influence. Which brings us back to this point, right before the boat was to run up on the shoreline.
xxxxxxx"Wah!.... huh." The sudden jolt of the boat being run aground was enough to given the slumbering Marco, whose recently closed eyes were now open wide and scanning the area wearily. It appeared that he had run around off to the side of a river. Around him were trees, though upon closer examining of the area, it seemed like those trees stopped further down the river. That seemed like a good enough place to start as any, having no knowledge of where he was. The only reason that he thought to follow the river was in hopes of finding a village or at least another person along it, remembering that moving water was a powerful concept for grain farmers. That and to get out of the forest's canopy. It just felt odd to be here. Something unnatural emanated from beyond the trees. Still what luck that he found himself on a river! And of all the places the boat could have picked to beach itself it had enough sense to pick here. What a smart boat it was. It was sad to separate but Marco was sure if the boat was smart enough to get him this far it could take care of itself. He really didn't think the boat was anything more than a boat but the idea allow him to start his on a good note.
xxxxxxxIt wasn't long after he left the grip of the forest's treeline to see the village up the hill a ways. Before, his hopes of civilization had been kindled by sight of a bridge, which hasten his escape of the forest, the dreaded feeling scratching at the back of his neck, growing more forcible and constricting as he grew closer to leaving. By the time he reached the bright green fields, Marco had to catch his breath, bent over with his hands pressed against his knees to support himself. He breathed hard but why? He wasn't being chased, though whatever lingering in the forest his body seemed keen on making sure he knew the danger. And his body was rarely wrong when it came to such things, it having instincts that Marco could only hope to understand one day. Only the Primal Übelist knew how to do that and they weren't easiest to find, either because they weren't many of them or they just didn't want to be found. He knew he was told about them once and actually got to meet one of them once. He was able to write quiet an amount during that month. But now, he had to get to the village. With his breath retaken, his feet began to move through the grass. He only looked back once into the forest. He couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't going to be as kind as it had been again. Best to forget about it, he reassured himself.
xxxxxxxMaking his way up the hill, the tell-tale signs of travelers could be spotted about. Caravan wagons, wheel marks in the dirt, the smell of horse. He observed the people who accompanied them and it finally dawned upon him how pathetic a situation he was in again. He was, to make it simple, skint broke. Not a copper to his name! He made a habit of using money up when he got it forgoing the idea of saving it, knowing that it did no good to trust a few piece of round metal, relying on more personal methods of self-reliance to figure out problems. But it didn't make things easy for him, but he decided long before to stick to this sort of life. Which meant that 'Oh, a'snagging he would go,' with food finding its way to the top of his new priorities list. So with his goal in mind, he made his way into town, keeping a vigilant eye on any opportunity that presented itself. Which it did, in the form of a grey haired merchant, who seemed to be talking with a couple of woman who, like him, were interesting in the merchant's cart. What he had his eye on was a bag of dried maize, opened slightly enough to see what was inside. Marco, not being a thief by trade or in thought, still finding not many problems in taking things for living, made his way casually over to the cart, stopped by it looking at the inventory, even addressed the merchant a moment with a nod before taking the bag from the cart, inspecting it to make sure it was usable and then just... walked with it. He nonchalantly tied the bag up, tucked it under his arm and began to walk off. All Marco could thing of was where he might find a couple of eggs, remembering the basics for a bread-like food that one of his many caravan mates had done before. It was odd but good, he just needed to find the stuff he thought he remember when into it. As to how far he would get without the merchant's awareness kicking in was another thing altogether. Something that he would figure out when he got there.
