Stepping Off
Thorn stood motionless atop the hillock. Below her the valley fell away from her, the river at its bottom obscured by a heavy mist. She glanced quickly over he shoulder, the butterflies which had been taking up residence in her stomach taking flight once more as she saw the tiny village she had been born in. It might have had a name once, hell, it might still have a name somewhere, but they were so isolated and small that no one there cared to remember it. It was Home, and that’s all it needed to be. She stepped off, each step taking her further from Home than she had ever been before. Within moments, it was gone.
She followed the river for a day or so, walking the rolling hills, through the copses and long grass of the fields during the day, and making camp when the lights above began to dim for night. The lamps were lovely at night, their light dimmed so low their light gave the slightest hint of the vaulted ceiling high above on clear nights, or tinting the clouds a subtle yellow or red. In the distance, the grand shape of Mt. Dragonrook rose above the valley, it’s jagged peak and sharp side imposing even at a distance. Despite the many joys of adventure, and the wonders of a new view, sorrow was rarely far. Every beautiful view, every tree she rested against, every sweet taste of fresh river water reminded her of her quest – to find Talon.
“Talon?”
Silence. She waited a moment, checked quickly over her shoulder, and tried again, hissing as loudly as she dared.
“Talon!“.
Crickets fiddled their nocturnal tune. Owls screeched into the night sky. An adder slithered by. Talon, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen. Thorn sat back against the tree and waited. Talon usually came when she called, and he usually hung around this part of the wood, and she couldn’t think what else the rookling could possibly be doing, but she tamped down her worries and waited. After two hours of sitting quietly, though, the worries crept back. She inched forwards, careful not to make too much noise this close to Home and risk Talon being discovered.
Thorn searched for hours in the darkness, but to no avail. Talon was gone. There were no signs of a struggle, no body; nothing. Just a set of fading footprints leading away from the Homewood. With the lamps beginning to brighten, she sprinted Home to pack. She needed to find Talon.
The screeching was coming from up ahead. Thorn crept through the mountain caverns towards the keening wails. It had been three days since she’d left Home, her provisions were beginning to run low, and a hurt animal would make for good eating. Treading silently in the darkness, she took her bow from her shoulder and knocked an arrow. Around the corner a doe lay on its side, agonised cries echoing pitifully as its hooves skittered across the ground. Its leg was caught under a pile of rocks, almost certainly broken. She drew the string back, muttered a prayer to whatever god might care about the poor creature, and ended its suffering with a whistle and a thud.
She fed well that day. Cooking much of the meat over a small fire, she ate everything she could manage in one go. With no salt, and no bag to keep it seperate, these was much of the creature she simply had to leave behind for whatever else lived in these forsaken tunnels. Stamping out the fire before she smoked herself out, she continued into the darkness of the cavern. As she delved further she noticed the darkness was replaced more and more with a low, reddish glow. The cool, wet air became warmer, the humidity replaced with a dryness that made Thorn’s skin itch horribly, the heat sapping her energy and resolve. Breaks became more and more common, her belly full of the hapless doe more curse than boon. Before long, her eyes drifted, and she slept against the wall of the tunnel.
Thorn awoke with a start. The ground was shaking and the heat had risen to be intolerable. She starred in silent disbelief, unsure if she was even awake or just dreaming. The wall was moving, its stone scales shifting left to right, iridescent in the low light that seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere. It was so hot. It was so hot. Her mouth went dry as she began to sweat uncontrollably, her vision began to swim and she had to hold the wall to stop herself collapsing. She tried to stand, but her legs refused to even attempt the feat. The edges of her sight began to fade, tunnelling. Thorn was going to be sick. As her eyes failed her, focussing on a single pin prick, she could have sworn she saw a single, gigantic, jet black eye open in the wall before she fell to the cavern floor, dead to the world around her.
The wall was gone. The heat was gone. Thorn shivered feverishly, soaked to the skin with sweat. She stood quickly, her weak legs nearly giving up underneath her. Her vision settled, and she looked around her. The newly opened cavern was dimly lit, but what little light there was reflected crazily by the piles and piles of gold and silver revealed before her. The riches in that cave were beyond imagining, a veritable sea of precious metals and stones. The thought of leaving with enough money to make Home the richest place in the Colostle was a tempting one, if Thorn was honest with herself, but Talon was still missing. Setting aside her lust for the treasure before her, she settled with taking a single memento; a small, bronze key, inset with a series of small rubies. She slipped it into the pocket of her tunic, pulled her cloak around her shoulders, and hurried off deeper into the mountain.
Without the lamps to tell night from day, Thorn had lost track of how long she’d been in the mountain. The doe was a long forgotten memory, the relief from the gnawing hunger long since faded. The one thing that kept her moving was the breeze. It had started a couple of sleeps ago, however long that really was, and the cool, vaguely salty wind had quickly become her lifeline, her only link to the outside of this endless, serpentine network of tunnels. Her eyes began to sting as the tunnels became brighter, the fresh sea air making her feel vaguely sick after days in the foetid depths. She could smell her own rancid clothes, but she cared less and less with each passing moment. She needed to get out.
Thorn awoke to a gentle rocking, and the sound of water lapping against wood. The smell of salt, and the freshness of the breeze felt as alien as the warmth of the lamps on her skin.
She had escaped. She had made it through the mountain.
Chris Hately, GM 
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