The ordeal (for such it was, truly!) has utterly drained me, perhaps emotionally more than physically, but the end result is the same. We remain in Greywick for a full two more days as I recover my strength. Neither Tanua nor Delkash ask me any questions about what happened inside, for which I am grateful. I’m not sure I could tell them the truth.

I also call on Delkash to help bandage up some of the wounds I received on our trip north. We finally seem to have time to dress them properly. However, perhaps I am too distracted, or just too tired, but the attempt is an exercise in futility; I fumble my pack and drop a good amount of our medicinal supplies into the fire, which makes it all but impossible to take care of the wounds properly. Tanua says she could help us replenish them if we were to stay longer, but I’m feeling the urgency of my quest. Quests, really: vanquishing the bonewalkers is one thing, but now I also have to bring that iron band back to Tanua, as well, all before I can return to seeking out Hilda. I decide to just wrap the wounds up again and endure the discomfort until we return to Raven Hill.

It seems like years since I set out from Timberwall, but when I stop and do the math, it’s only been a couple of months. I realize winter will be upon us soon, and I wonder how my quests will fare once the snows begin to fall.

The night before we leave, I decide to make another attempt to fill my essence reservoir; I really want to have that as full as possible for the return trip. I misjudge my spiritual fragility, though—the ordeal left me far more ragged than I was willing to admit—and I fail again. Fortunately, the failure is not so spectacular this time, but my confidence takes a real beating and I try to conceal the attempt from Delkash.

Somehow he knows anyway. He speaks to me gently about patience, and the temporary nature of challenges. I writhe in shame at his kindness, and for the first time, I begin to wonder if I truly deserve to be Hilda’s apprentice. How can I possibly succeed if I’m so abysmally bad at this basic, fundamental skill?

Essence seems very far away just now. Impossibly far away. Unreachable. Dejected, I let it be.

When the morning comes, Delkash and I gather our things. I put what provisions we have into my pack, but keep the precious spring water close, the water skin bound tightly at my belt. Then, after bidding farewell to Tanua, we head south. It is surprisingly difficult to find the trail we followed earlier, and spend a good part of the day wandering back and forth, canvassing the area. We eventually give up and just strike out southward.

Our supplies are low, which is not a good way to start a journey, and forage is surprisingly hard to come by. Even the large meadow we discover in a valley between some hills yields very little.

Several days pass like this, sheltering in shallow caves or beneath ancient, scraggly trees, before we happen upon a path. It is heading in roughly the direction we want, so we follow it and eventually discover farmland. A farmer hails us, and we spend some time learning about this area. There is an old fortress in the area, Low Crag, controlled by a chieftain with little regard for his people. The farmers are permitted to go and farm the land, fortunately, or the people would all starve, but other than that, no one is allowed in or out.

I exchange a look with Delkash; we’d hoped to be able to resupply, but this does not bode well. We thank the farmer for the information and continue down the road.

The fortress comes into view as we round a hill; it sits atop a hill of its own, some distance ahead, not tall but sprawling in a low, dirty way. As we approach, four bowman appear above the palisade.

“Halt!” one of them calls. “Come no further, strangers. We do not permit outsiders here.”

I hold my hands up. “We mean you no harm,” I shout back. “We seek only supplies—“

“There is nothing for you here,” shouts the bowman. “Go back. This is your last warning.”

Frustrated, I lower my arms and turn around. I can feel the arrows at my back, following us as we leave. We pass a cold, hungry night.

The weather grows worse as morning comes. A chill wind comes blowing from the north, pushing us with each step. If it didn’t cut mercilessly through our clothing, the push would be welcome. We go as far as we can, but thunder begins to chase us, and we know we must seek shelter soon. The area is particularly inhospitable, though; even the hills have begun to level out, and the trees are few and far between. The wind blows harder, and rain drops begin pelting us. It is difficult to keep our footing. Rigi takes shelter inside my cloak, which would be comical if I wasn’t struggling to hold onto my belongings so desperately.

Then, a particularly vicious gust of wind catches my pack and yanks it from my shoulder. The bag opens like a sail and nearly all my things spill out, blown every which way by the wind. The pack itself is blown high into the air and out of sight.

I cry out, but it is too late. Everything is gone—everything except my staff, a small pouch at my belt with my shamanist items, and the water skin of sacred water.

After some time we find a boulder to shelter behind, and spend perhaps the worst night of my life.

By morning, the storm has cleared, and looking around we can see the edge of a forest not far away. Forage is good, finally: we fill our bellies on berries and find mushrooms and roots and even catch a couple of small rabbits. It feels good to have food in my stomach again.

The next couple of days pass without incident, except for a hawk that thought to make sport of Rigi. It injures Rigi’s back, but not terribly, and Rigi is ultimately able to chase the bird off on his own. I patch him up as best I can, but there isn’t much I can do without my pack.

The next day, we discover a cairn.