Mother Brandy shifted the makeshift bags slung over her shoulders. The warm mid-morning sun was beaming down on her steadily, and she was tempted to drag her burdens behind her to ease the abuse of her back, if only for a few minutes. She shook her head at her musings, but it did not go unnoticed by the broad paladin who walked beside her.

Slayter chuckled and eyed Brandy, shifting the weight of his own bags. “Strife in every step, eh?”

“Your dragon certainly likes to watch us squirm,” she replied.

“Well, the Great Dragon advocates sacrifice and honour, yes.” He gave the cleric a stern look. “Our Great Dragon respects those willing to carry the burdens placed upon them. It is our place to respect Its lessons and rise to meet them.”

“Of course. My apologies.” A wry smile came to Mother Brandy. “I don’t suppose the Great Dragon respects those who seek out wagons?”

Slayter gave a hearty laugh and nodded, saying, “Seizing opportunities is often the way to rising above gruelling trials. Sometimes our burdens are hardships and tests of character.” He hoisted his sacks with a wide grin. “Sometimes our burdens are more literal.”

Following the exploration, excavation, and plundering of the ruin outside of Summerberry, Finde had insisted on taking every ratty book and object of even questionable worth the four had managed to uncover. When she’d pulled nine burlap sacks of various sizes from her person, Brandy, Slayter, and Theo had all stopped and stared, stunned at her preparation, efficiency, and readiness to loot. Slayter’s heavy guffaw had rolled and echoed around the tired stone of the ruin’s walls. The temple fight had been difficult and almost deadly, but they’d pulled together, survived, and had spoils to show for their spilled blood.

Finde positively bobbed with excitement as they walked, but Mother Brandy took a dim view of their treasures. Their mysterious companion might well be able to glean something of interest concerning the ruin’s history from the mouldy tomes, but a stack of paper crudely scrawled by some madman rarely was worth its weight compared to the same burden in coins.

The four walked through Tria’s seemingly endless fields of grain, electing not to return to Summerberry, but instead to journey on to richer towns and cities. They kept to the paths trampled flat by the wildlife, narrow channels and alleys through the tall amber stalks. Theo spotted deer and wild horses grazing, but they were wary, skittish creatures, and none of the four had the wherewithal to get close enough to bridle one into service.

The four returned to the monotony familiar to all pilgrims, travelling merchants, and wanderers across the four kingdoms. By agreement, the four continued south by southeast through the untended grain fields, longing for the moment where they could rejoin the Wood Road and find rest in one of the many settlements that sprouted along the grand merchant route.

Journeying with so many bags in tow was tiresome, but the four found ways to keep up their morale, coming to know each other’s habits and quirks. They unwound and knotted together with a comfortable strength.

Mother Brandy had a knack for foraging and cooking whatever was found in the wild fields when they made camp come evening. She delighted in the challenge, even going so far as to attempt to rotisserie a bloated, rotting carcass into a somewhat palatable meal.

Whatever their cleric cooked, Slayter would eat without question, usually with premature enthusiasm that resulted in a burnt tongue or a wave of nausea and spluttering, to the continual amusement of all. Despite his raucous jokes and endless boasting, none of his comrades could deny his spirit. Always first to jump to their defence at the slightest provocation, the paladin made it a point to stay awake as they rested, staying on watch through the night without relief.

Brandy and Finde both awoke under a high moon one night to the sound of a soft, haunting flute. Looking to their paladin, they saw he’d knit a simple instrument from the gain shafts that surrounded them. Slayter apologized when he saw them awake, but the two brushed his contrition aside and encouraged him to keep playing through the night, if only quieter.

Even Finde began to relax, and it was discovered she had a rare, sardonic wit beneath the stoic politeness and mannerisms common to her kin. Though her formalities dropped, her bundled robes and countless shawls and scarves remained swaddled about her amorphous figure. They were five nights heading south through the grain before Slayter worked up the courage to ask Finde if she would remove the shawls covering her face.

She whisked off the scarf binding her head as though they were cobwebs and presented beneath was a face devoid of any features. Her visage was crude with clean lines, as if a caricatured elf were drawn with as few lines as necessary.

Mother Brandy laughed at her trick of magic, spotting the illusion immediately, but Slayter’s curiosity had struck a wall of confusion.

“She won’t remove her robes.” Brandy scolded the befuddled paladin. “Let it be.”

Slayter shook his head and wandered away, claiming a need for firewood. Brandy and Finde chuckled after him. The scholar undid her illusion and her familiar, obscured face returned into focus.

Theo gave an awkward cough and remarked with an absent air that he hadn’t even realized their tenebrous companion was of elven descent.

Finde squared her narrow shoulders to him. “Does it matter?” She asked in a suspicious tone.

He shrugged and smiled, an air of embarrassment washing over him as though he’d only then realized he’d been speaking aloud. “No, no. Should I be addressing you differently? Some kind of honorific?”

“Finde will do fine,” she replied, relaxing at the stalker’s attempt at traditional etiquette.

Brandy threw a twist of tuber peel into the fire. It caught a tongue of flame and shrivelled with a merry crackle. “At least you haven’t the mixed breed calling you ‘Mother Elf.’”

Finde gave her an admonishing sniff. “That kind of talk won’t bridge any gap between blood. One cannot change one’s race as conveniently as choosing a temple.”

“Implying?” Brandy growled.

Finde threw up her hands in apology. “I’ve misspoken. I meant no ill will. Perhaps it is best if I make ready for the night.”

And so another night passed. Theo was generally first to rise, and Brandy found the stalker’s morning routine—exercises, stretches, and curious fighting forms with his scythe—mesmerizing to watch. His lithe body and exacting steps betrayed his prowess in battle, a sharp contrast with his stumbling words and quiet, lost demeanour that left Brandy with an uneasy sense of trepidation. She worried he was more lucky than skilled and was bound to miss a step and accidentally cleave off his own head.

Why else would he be covered in scars, Brandy thought, if not by being prone to injury? And what of the drab gourd from which he drank occasionally when he thought he was being unwatched?

The four made their way south across rolling hills of green and gold. The pleasant spring weather brought surprise warm winds, rolling up from the sea sitting on Tria’s southern shore.