The three adventurers cut through the mushroom-infested forest, with almost boring ease.
Boris, the local hunter who was supposed to guide them, dragged after them like a prisoner of war. Hurt more in his pride than his body, although perhaps more damage even was done to his sanity.
His eyes bobbed into his orbits like eggs floating in slow-boiling water, taking in distractedly what they were seeing, but gazing at something farther, or perhaps nowhere in sight.
The rest of the group was not faring much better.
Their clothes were covered in dirt and their attention seemed caught in something distant, or inner, too. The only one who seemed glad about himself, or the future that awaited him, was Valthares, who proudly brought along the severed, and already terribly-smelling head of the giant lake serpent, that had almost killed both him and Boris.
Following him and obeying his every command, while looking almost as happy, was the last remaining bear cub that they had adopted after their first clash with the sylvan threats: his mother. They had to kill her or be killed, when she attacked them to protect exactly that cub, plus the brother which disappeared who knows where, while they were exploring the last cursed tower.
Valth called the bear Perkele, a devil of folk stories according to him. And when his pride was not inflated enough by his draconic-looking trophy, it was kicked back up by the obedience of Perkele, which surprised even Adyss and Karsten, especially in how it increased after the escape from the haunted house of the prince, in the deep of the forest.
All those events seemed so far in time, although technically only a few days had passed, and even less from the house escape, or even their brief tower heist, when they rescued a Boris who had been apparently already rescued by the mysterious master of the tower, after having been mangled and kidnapped there by the dragon that attacked them at the druids' place.
That weird, cold-breathing dragon in particular was a sore memory for all of them. Nobody wanted to think about the treasure hoard they must have left in its cave under the tower, but the great beast nearly killed all of them once, and might have as well finished the job if they had tried their luck again. Or this was their consolation: having made the smarter choice. That, and the loot of silverware from the prince's possessions.
For what they knew, Jager, the silver-tongued foreigner who had lured them into that crazy journey in the first place, was now inside the belly of that dragon, or on one of the torture/surgery tables of the mysterious dwellers of that tower, deep into the "twilight world" they had ended up in. "Dämmerung", Valth called it. And they wanted to stay out and as far of it as possible, at least for the time being.
When they finally reached the swampy fields and farms at the North-Eastern limits of Fritdorf, they all let out a sigh of relief. The terrible wonders hidden beyond the walls of that moss-covered cathedral of trees, the flooded woods, the invisible portals in shadowy corners, and the gloomy towers, seemed now far behind them. But was trouble behind them, as well?
The fear of the unknown was quickly replaced by that of the known, but not less dangerous iron laws of Heiltal, the realm to which Fritdorf belonged. And all the nearby realms, actually, were the same. Puny and undeveloped fiefdoms by the elves' standards. But even they came to understand that the religious fervor uniting those young human nations was not to be underestimated. Especially since "holy scriptures" and "law" were synonyms for them.
And if they had decided to step out of the Allied Realms, it would have meant facing the desolation and savagery of the steppes and their people. Heretic monsters according to the humans, and the judgment of the elves was not far from theirs, in this case.
Adyss and Karsten had arrived from there, the East, and they would not undertake that hellish trip again, especially since going back they would not have the help and support that Whiteshard provided them on the way forth, when they set out on their expedition. Their next safe return trip was scheduled in 5 years. A small time for elves, although the density of the latest events made them wonder if they were not starting to feel the passing of time more at the rate of humans.
Instead, Adyss and Karsten thought, exploring the Mistral Seas of the North, could have meant finding more interesting magic and ruins, and even a possible earlier return, if they could get some help from the Fog Folk: the rugged and ingenious lineage of Erik, the young sea trader they had encountered the first day in Fritdorf.
Malik the Liar, another figure went missing in their loss-ridden trip, had assured them Erik had been arrested just before his escape from the local constable house, so he might have been executed since then, but the ship he came to Fritdorf in should have still been moored somewhere upstream from the village, on the very Frit river.
The group briefly discussed these travel plans, and convincing Valthares to join them and becoming their main guide in reaching the coast was not hard. He had never traveled there, or anywhere else for that matter, but at least he could pass for a local more than the two elven-kin, who were always an ear pop-up away from being denounced as devilish ungodly creatures, by the indoctrinated rural folks that seemed to compose the totality of the local population.
In addition, Valth was by now convinced that this was the time of his life. That is, the time to make his life his, far from the constraints of his family. He used to be worried about them, moved by feelings of fearful respect and responsibility. Now he viewed them as ignorant or even malicious oppressors, that had been keeping him deprived of a world of wonders out there.
After resting at Boris's house, when after a long trek around its grounds he declared it secure, the group understood the hunter would have not followed them anymore. His area of expertise was the forest after all, and the river journey that awaited them meant the crossing of the Felsig Moors, and at some point the deviation towards the Schräg Ebenen, or Slanted Plains: the strange formation atop which seated Daggerfall: the only safe port along the Northwestern coast, a notorious ship graveyard along the otherwise swampy or rocky shores.
Apart from gifting the group this not-so-useless pieces of information, Boris also accompanied them one last time the following night, to see if he could help them cross the inhabited outskirts of Fritdorf safely. They resented not being able to stop at the Frit Mühle, to finally have a sleep on comfy beds for a change, but it was too risky: portraits of their wanted faces might have as well been hanging at the inn's billboard, by now, or so they thought. So no rendezvous with the plump and busty waitress for Karsten, Adyss declared. Only to later change the subject when Karsten reminded her who the waitress preferred of them two.
Instead, their next stop should have been at the small town of Murkel, deep into the Felsig Moors, after an undisclosed amount of hours of river navigation, on a ship that they still needed to find.





