Dismounting his horse and releasing the saddlebags from it, Nihtwulf went and sat down near the small ruins, letting the horse graze at will on the yellowed tufts of grass growing all over. It had been a long morning of riding further east, and he could sense the moistness of the Hoarwell in the air, so he knew he was getting closer to the river. Finally.
The last days of traveling through the hilly lands was beginning to take its toll, he needed to se lush plants again, and it would not hurt to trap a coney or two for dinner. But here, in the midst of the low rolling slopes of dried grass, sandy earth and hardly a gnarled tree, wildlife was sparse beyond a few birds, and the ever present flies. Flies were perhaps the one thing about riding horses that annoyed him, the ever present buzz of the pesky insects whenever the horse stayed in one place for a while, then again, they were mere insects.
It had been an easy journey the past few days, few roamed these southern reaches, and fewer still were the signs of others passing by, be it orc or man. Sitting for a few moments in thoughts, he opened one of the saddlebags and rummaged through it, he took out his waterskin and drank a few gulps of lukewarm water, it not being something he was fond of, at least it washed his mouth free of the dust.
With the sun growing high in the sky overhead, he looked inside the bag and found a small apple, taking it out and examining it, he then used the small knife carried in his belt to deftly cut off a piece that had gone rotten, before munching on the rest of the fruit, a smaller apple still in the bag he threw over to the horse, who ate it happily, probably with worm and everything.
Nihtwulf placed the waterskin back in the saddlebag after hefting it to estimate the water remaining, there should be enough to reach the river. Closing the bag and making sure the leather straps were tied tightly, he then opened the other bag, and pulled out the small bottle of ink, his journal and the feather that would need replacing soon.
Days have passed in this bleak landscape, and though the hills here resemble parts of the mark in the way they roll one after the other, the grasses certainly do not. It is strange to me that this area should be so bleak, but it must be both the high content of sand in the soil and the abundance of rock, I would not be surprised to find that most of the soil is in fact just that, tiny pieces of rock not even worthy of being called dirt.
I'm running low on meat, and need to replenish it soon, if none is to be found near the river I will have to try my luck at fishing though honestly I detest the taste of fish, but it is meat... sort of.
I look forward to the lands following the river south, it should be easier going, also for the horse, even though at first the humidity might be a tad annoying given there will be little shade to find before we come further south. It will be interesting to see where the Greyflood can be crossed, once the Hoarwell and the Loudwater have merged, and I still hope to find a caravan along the way, both for the news it may carry, but also to see people again even be they strangers.
It would be good to know too, if the road is safe passing near Tharbad, or if it is a better prospect to turn east even further, and follow the mountains south towards the gap. If the gap is indeed passable at all...
Dipping the feather and drawing a tiny map of the recent days of travels, Nihtwulf finished up his entry in the journal, then placed it on the ground besides him, letting the soft breeze dry the ink, while he replaced the stopper in the ink-bottle and dried off the feather with tufts of grass pulled from the ground.
Traveling along the main roads, especially here in these parts, was never a good idea. Too many distractions, too many hapless and helpless people who, though spread thin, one and all looked to anyone they met for a bit of goodwill, be it food, coin, or even just company.
But the people of the Lone Lands had never interested him, why they would eek out an existence in such an inhospitable land was something he would never fathom, why not move west towards Bree?, where green grass and plenty of farmable land was present and lay unused!. No, though he would help those he came across in need, in this area he would not go looking for people to help. If they were not even willing to aid themselves, why should he bring what short relief he might?.
Glancing at the scarf he realized that it had been a gift from Jess, back before she married Tam, a token of her affection she had called it when she gave it to him, white, with a neatly stitched border of dark green thread, he was amazed he still carried it around, it had been quite some time since he had actually thought about where he had gotten it.
He cherished both of them, and their son, and he would miss them.
