I left my new friends reelin' outside the pub and after a bit o' traffic on the bridge headed up to Woodhurst. I stopped in an old haunt o' mine in the lower part o' town, "The Mud" we calls it, and not because of the muddy pond it sits on.
The ale there is stiff enough to stand a chair on.
True enough, Marton was afire. There weren't a soul to be seen other than fat wargs prowlin' about. I stayed north of the town and hugged the cliffs until I seen the winding path up to the Stonedeans.
I found a few locals and told 'em the news of what I'd seen. Forewarned is forearmed I reckon.
I shared a beer or two with my new friends, and got ready to head on.
Brenin Crus