When we set out, it was before dawn. From sallies, we went down the road and into the area's farmlands. Thick forests crested the nearby agriculture zones. Men with solid arms and stronger spirits filled the lands as we traversed the dirt-paved roads. Small children stopped playing ball and gawked as they pointed at the unsightly party that traversed their common dirt roads.
Shadeo, a man as barrel-chested as an ox, walked in the lead with his great hammer, the size, and weight of an ox on his back, held firm by its leather latches. Our bard, Rafael, produced and juggled six balls gingerly in the attire of a modern gleeman, the kind that little boys and girls jumped at during midsummer faires, the kind with stories of the realm behind the farm, beyond the hoe and shovel, the land of swords and shield and dungeons and raids: the life of adventurers. Then there was Roger and I, the two hungover afflicted drunkards that walked at the rear with headaches so painful that you could see it through the popping veins on our foreheads.
Why did we have to go so God damn early?
Muttered Roger, as we had only just made it out of town and into the farmlands some walk away from our meeting point with Judas and her group.
Don't grumble, boy, it's you and the captain's fault for getting piss drunk the night before.
Shadoeo had quickly adopted the older brother role in the group—the one who said what you didn't want to hear but needed to, the one who was making that headache just that much worse with his honest words, which stung as they finished and reverberated in my aching head.
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Oh, lighten up, Shadeo; they had a grand time. Can you blame them, especially the captain? He woke up from a coma that should have killed a bear; he deserves a little fun.
The bard was quick with his defense. A good time was always worth having to bards. After all, they profit off the damn thing. Good times mean a heavy pouch of coins for bards at the end of the night. Especially ones as skilled as him.
You are a biased brat. You know that. Of course, a bard would defend a good piss drinking.
This conversation turned into the audio backdrop of the next few miles. They were squabbling between themselves. Bard vs. brute, the forces of the universe chose their two champions, and now they bickered on a dirt-laden trail with only the trees and the wild game as their spectators.
A few hours into the trek, the obvious question was asked. The one that should have been our first, yet somehow escaped everyone's train of thought.
No one thought of mounts? Shadoeo's words cut deep.
Mounts, no shit.
I was the first to answer.
I thought it was pretty close.
Which was the truth. My mind has been warped by the island, by the small space that could be traversed on legs alone. That wasn't the case for the realm. Even riding back the quickest griffins, the realm took days of constant travel to cross its circumference.
Anyway, it's nice to walk and take in the scenery. And you never know. Those who walk, who take things slow, you never know what you'll find.
My words carried the smile that my body couldn't produce. The hangover still gripped me firmly.
And as if on some universal cue, the golden trail appeared, pointing me to take a hard left onto another dirt trail. The trail looked sullen and fresh; only the markings of animals crested its ground.
This way, I feel we are meant to take a detour.
Scoffing but not denying their leader, they followed me down into the dark forests that crest the Eastern Sea. A forest that never held anything worthy of farming. Never a loot drop worthy of the hassle made it an area unknown to much of the cultured world.
Meaning that the Golden Trail must have something worthy of a pitstop.
Those were the only words racing through my head. No other logic or justifications are needed. If only I knew them what I know now. How the turn would take a turn, and the golden trail sometimes thinks I am worthy of the challenges ahead.