It's a long hike across the Entwash and a lot of open ground to cover, so I decided to see about a horse.
As luck would have it, this chap Dudsig had a horse needed back to Harwick where they do a lot o' the training for these Mearas they calls 'em, so I'd have to ride a bit more than I'd wanted, but it'd get me well on my way to the Great River. Glad I did, there were a few gobbies prowlin' about in the long grass.
As expected, the mead hall in Stoke were warm and toasty, and the grub was second-to-none. And I met the Reeve, Fríthild, a shield-maiden no less!
She were organising some folks to put out the wild fires nearby. She asked me to go by Oserley to see if I could get a few more hands to help, so I agreed I'd pass by. 'Twere a lonely walk, nary a soul, just the tall grass swaying and the birds singing. Weather were dry, at least.
Walking south I was reminded how treeless this part of the world is, just open land for miles, and the occasional horse cloppin' about.
Looked like someone had a rough time of it with a few cottages caught afire, but it was mostly out by the time I got there.
The wind in these parts can whip up a spark and catch the grasses, next thing you know the whole field's in flame.
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.
There's a nice little path follows the Isen and I loves the sounds of the waterfalls and weirs all the way along, very calming.
I didn't bother stopping at Grimbold's camp as I had a lot of ground to cover that day, and one of his footman told me there'd been some trouble across the river so's I'd best keep movin'.
Fair enough I says, and I plodded across the river and into the Westfold, wet boots an' all.
Brenin Crus