The stone shelter is now two days behind me, and I last saw the wooden palisade of Timberwall almost a week ago. I’m as wet and cold as I’ve ever been, struggling to keep my fingers and ears and nose warm as I forge onward through this eternal gray drizzle. Even Rigi’s stolid acceptance of the situation is wearing thin.

I flex my fingers, forcing blood into them, and wrestle with a rising despair as I gaze through the rain toward the upward-sloping land ahead. The general levelness of the Havens is giving way—gradually—to the climbing hills of the Hinterlands, though I’m still at least another week away from the Hinterlands proper. For most of today I’ve been walking in a gully between two barren hills, following the engorged stream that chuckles past from the higher land ahead. The two hills have sheltered me from the worst of the wind, and there’s even been decent fishing here. Raw fish is hardly the satisfying repast I could wish, but it at least spares me from dipping too deeply into my supplies.

The hills to my right and left gradually diminish and I rise from the gully, exposed again to a wind from the east that whips the drizzle into a frenzy that almost blinds me at times. The stream bends away to the east, and while it has been decent company today, to follow it would mean walking directly into the wind. I decline, and we part company.

The merchant track has been difficult to find lately, as the ground grows rockier. Every so often I’ll see a low cairn of stones, which serve to confirm my guess as to where the track is taking me. I see another one up ahead, and adjust my path to take me past it.

As I approach it, I see it is more than just the cairn; it’s another stone shelter, like the one I stayed in before. Gladly I approach it and, finding it unoccupied, I step inside. The timing is great—the meager daylight has begun waning.

This shelter is a bit better constructed than the first, and manages to keep out almost all the wind and rain. There is a pallet of dry straw in the far corner, and a fire pit in the middle, though there’s no chimney for the smoke. Still, I start a fire as soon as I can and again set my clothes around it to dry. The smoke pools against the rough sod ceiling before lazily making its way out the door, and the small shelter slowly fills with the smell of the fire.

I make my bed in the straw, after rigging a simple noisemaker at the door to alert me in case someone comes. Ultimately, it proves unnecessary—my sleep is deep, and undisturbed.

In the morning, I’m doubly grateful for the shelter as the weather has gotten worse. The winds are blowing harder, and the rain is coming down like chill needles. I check my supplies, and figure I can afford to stay at least one day here in the shelter while I wait for the weather to clear. If my journey lasts much more than another week, though, I’ll need to start depending much more on forage, and forage has been sparse.

There is a flash of light an instant before thunder hammers at my small shelter, rattling the stones. Instinctively, I make a ritual gesture, and immediately think of Oden. I remember when he taught me that gesture—a quick sequence of shapes made with my fingers that ward off evil—and feel a pang of homesickness. Oden is days and miles away right now.

I remember his statement, I am dying, and I hope he is well. I rummage in my pack and pull out my bag of herbs, tossing a pinch of dried rockflower blooms into the fire. I utter Oden’s name, and make another gesture—a minor ritual of goodwill, also taught to me by Oden. Please be well, I think. I repeat the words of my Vow to return to Timberwall as I toss another pinch of dried blooms onto the fire. A tart, pungent odor fills the small shelter, and I breathe deeply of it.

It smells like home.

The storm rages for two days, and I grow uneasy, wondering about my dwindling supplies. The thunder and lightning, the wind and the rain, all make it not only uncomfortable to continue my journey, but truly dangerous.

I hunker down and try to ration my food. Rigi, at least, is able to hunt a little bit at night, despite the storm. I wish I could do as much.

My essence “reservoir”—a kind of pool of mystic energy that I can tap for different tasks—is empty, and I wish I’d thought to ask Oden for help with it before I’d left. I’ve never actually filled it by myself, but I’m tempted to try it as the storm rages and I’m left with nothing else to do. Still, Oden warned me many times about the hazards of losing one’s concentration while filling one’s reservoir, and I eventually decide that caution is warranted. I have no pressing need for the reservoir, and I’d like to be somewhere with a bit more support—emotionally and physically—before I try it.

On the third day the rain weakens, the wind slackens, and the sun actually comes out. When I peek my head out of the shelter, I see what promises to be a very beautiful day, and my heart lifts. I quickly pack my things and tidy the shelter for the next traveler who might happen past it, and I strike out.

I’m grateful that the terrain is rockier here, as the track—though muddy—could be much worse. I push myself hard, almost jogging for long portions of the day, and make good time. The touch of the sun feels gentle, and warming, not at all harsh or blinding as it might be. I feel more optimistic about my chances than I have for many days, and as the next few days pass, more than once I feel myself wishing Oden were here to enjoy the beauty of them with me. He always enjoyed the chance to go out on a mild day, hunting for herbs, and mice, and birds. He would surely have enjoyed these days.

By the fourth day I’m exhausted, and my supplies are low enough that I consider going to bed without a meal, fasting at least until morning. The trail has been leading me up into the benches of a large hill, and the going has been hard. The light begins to fade in earnest and I cast about for a place to make camp, but there, up ahead, I discover a palisade. A village! I push myself, jogging up the steepening track, and arrive at the gate of the village with perhaps a half hour of daylight left.

As I step through the gate, the villagers all turn to look at me. We would have done the same in Timberwall, honestly—strangers are uncommon everywhere in the Ironlands, where merchants are few and other travelers almost unheard of. But this is different, somehow—some of them turn and whisper to one another, never taking their eyes off me. One young man sees me and immediately darts off down a side road, running quickly.

I set my pack down and absently pet Rigi, who also feels the uncertainty in the town. Have I violated some taboo? I know about taboos—Timberwall has its fair share, of course—but I can’t imagine what I might have done, or failed to do. Did I enter by the wrong gate? Am I wearing something gauche? Maybe owls are bad omens here?

I’m about to apologize, and (reluctantly) leave, when the young man who ran off suddenly reappears, an elderly man on his arm. The old man has a lengthy gray beard on his chin, but almost no hair on his head, and he wears a ragged, gray robe that might once have been white. He supports himself with a staff in one hand, and seems to be leaning as much on the young man as on the staff.

Upon catching sight of me, the old man stands a bit straighter. He raises his staff to me in greeting, and in a surprisingly strong voice addresses me. “Hail, stranger!” he says. “Welcome to Raven Hill. We’ve been expecting you.”