Leo - Hiking Foothills

It’s less than a one day voyage from our Southern Isle to the continent. On a clear day like today was the continent is visible on the horizon. Kane and I departed soon after dawn and landed a little after midday.

Our landing point is a small sandy beach surrounded by a light wood. The wood shields the beach from view giving it some privacy. We can leave our canoe here comfortable that nobody will spot it and get curious. A little ways through the woods is a path that leads east toward the foothills, the only manageable pass through the nearby mountain range. On the other side of the mountains is the small Foothill Village, which serves as our rest stop, and from there the continent is wide open for traveling. Kane and I secured our canoe to some trees and began our hike.

We reached the top of the mountain pass when the Sun began descending on the horizon. Mountains towered above us to the north and south. Their snow-capped peaks gleamed in the lowering sun. It's fascinating that the temperatures up that high are so cold but down here we sweat in the dusk. To the west the ocean, usually a brilliant blue but now turning a light purple, blankets the horizon. The shores of our Southern Island appear as a haze, almost an illusion. In the east Kane and I could easily spot the distant rocky-mountains where Quarry town lies. The sides of the mountains have been carved into revealing glistening white rock. Just ahead of us Foothill village lies on the hills below. Firelight danced in the streets and kitchen smoke rose from chimneys. Soon we'll be able to smell the aromas of supper upon the air. Kane and I wiped the sweat off our brows and continued on hopeful for a good meal.

We reached Foothill Village just after sunset. Kane and I greeted some familiar faces at the tavern-inn. A slow cooked beef brisket with gravy and vegetables was served for supper. It tasted especially good tonight and we washed it down with some very refreshing ale. After our meal Kane and I spent our time mingling with the town folk, which really meant he took a seat with a tankard of ale and I did the talking. Many asked what hunting expedition we are on.

“None.” I replied, “We’re heading to the archives of Thurn hoping to uncover a mystery of the seas.” I then told what we had witnessed at Northern Isle, I noticed Kane had another drink. Concern and horror swept the faces of the tavern-folk. None here know much about the sea. Not unexpected. One man, a hard-working farmer with a dirt-stained face, asked if the recent rumble may have something to do with it. They had felt the earth shake here a little but nobody felt the heated wind that ripped across Southern.

“I have no idea.” I said, “Hopefully some answers will be found at Thurn. Their records go back centuries and if this has happened before somebody must have written of it.” I hope as much, at least.