NPC: Rustbucket Dooley (Woodlands above Coldman’s Heath, The Eastfold)

Of an evening, five days after his mindless flight from Whispering Pines, Rustbucket found himself in dense woodlands that crowded around the feet of the White Mountains. He was disorientated - near mad with hunger and exhaustion - a condition not helped by frequent and copious draughts taken from the kegs which hung about Stew-pony’s straining neck.

The thought of another night lying exposed to the elements brought bitter tears to the crusty seadog’s rheumy eyes. His stomach heaved as they coursed down his grimy face, stinging his chapped lips and invoking memories of roasted pork crackling dusted with a liberal dose of good sea-salt.

Oh la! To sit besides a warm fire… to smell and taste a warm, hearty meal and, when his belly was filled, to roll up in a thick blanket and sleep long and deeply. He would do anything to regain such simple pleasures; would roll back time and undo his wantonness if it were possible. But it was not! And to yield to such fancies would place him in worse circumstances then he already found himself in.

Nay sai, he would hold his nerve and endure this suffering even if it meant the end of him. It was better to face possible starvation in a cold and hostile world than incarceration in some dank and chilly dungeon. Aye! Better by far indeed, than feeling a coarse rope around his neck and facing the long, terrible step into deep and eternal oblivion.

Rustbucket squawked suddenly in alarm and tugged frantically at Stew-pony’s tattered reins. A light ahead in the trees! His wool-gathering had caused him to be careless; he had almost stumbled into the yard of a rustic smallholding.

He sprang from his mount and led Stew-pony into the deep shadows of the wood. When his steed was safely tethered, the old mariner crept silently forward and lay for a time surveying the small house and its outbuildings. A thin tendril of smoke rose from the home’s stone chimney, faint light spilled through a chink in one of the near shutters.

Within minutes he was mounted and picking his way carefully back towards the Great West Road. Emboldened by his successful foray, and by the dusky camouflage the night provided, he reined in upon the highway and lifted a keg to his lips.

“GACK!” An explosion of disgust burst from his withered lips as the crusty seadog tossed the empty keg with reckless pique across the road.

The ale was gone then, and Bema knew how much wine still sat within the second barrel. He would have to be frugal with his supplies, for where he was headed there were few dwellings, let alone taverns. Aye, the lands north of the Entwash; the barren hills of the Wold, were scantly populated. He doubted whether any inn or hostelry lay along his path.

Turning Stew-pony eastward he galloped away, riding hard along the King’s Road whilst the night hours still held sway.

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