I left The Mud and walked through Woodsbury proper, it were rainin', o' course...
Soggy hike to Torsbury and I did not like the look o' the folks camped out there, so I strolls through like I owns the place and kept going to Stoke.
Wish I'd headed that way in the first place, better grub in Stoke. They got a proper mead hall there, big fire in the middle an' all.
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