“Ain’t gonna find many what travel ‘is road,” the gangly man said in his gruff, sour speech. “Wanna get word back to ‘em who sent ya’s, yer gonna need to find yerself a raven.”
“Or a wizard who ain’t gonna turn you into dung for askin’,” added Ivar, chuckling mirthlessly.
A mere four-day’s journey out of Restov, you find yourselves traveling a thin, overgrown dirt trail on the southern border of Brevoy. Dubbed the South Rostland Road by the last sign you’d past, this arrow-straight, featureless, east-west route could hardly be deemed more than a horse trail. The endless sea of hills and forests to the south offer little in the way of scenery; the rolling plains to the north offer even less.
Back in town, you’d been told that you would make Oleg’s within a few days. The 90-mile journey would be relatively easy, so long as the rain and predators stayed away. Hitching the wagon to your team of horses, and laden with all manner of supplies, the three of you left Restov in eager, high spirits. Despite the droll, boring journey, your mood has remained steadfast.
After all, who wouldn’t be enthralled at the prospect of being named Lord Such-and-Such of his own kingdom?
“There’s riders who stop by Oleg’s every fortnight or so, but that ain’t scripture, as sometimes they just ride on past,” Ivar continued, wiping grease fat from his wet lips. Small flecks of spittle and partially-chewed meat could be seen dotting his wild beard, remnants of the meal that the five of you had shared earlier that day. The poultry that Ivar and the gangly man brought with them made the duo’s presence tolerable, despite their unkempt appearances and undignified manner.
Your party had come across the pair the day prior, and, after the customary questions asked when one encounters unknown travelers, decided that it would be best if the respective groups traveled as one. They, offering their poached turkey and other various foul, and you, offering a wagon ride to alleviate their weary feet, had traveled the quiet road swapping stories and information, encountering nothing in the way of misfortune.
“So, don’t go scrapin’ around for trouble and get in too deep. There ain’t none help to be found. It’s just you’n yours, and a whole lotta damned, murderous bastards roamin’ them woods,” Ivar finished.
“An’ worse n’ that,” the gangly man added, his tone low, his eyes staring out across the great expanse to the south. “Much worse.”