The Golden Path

It’s been too long since I’ve simply wandered. A destination in mind, bien sûr, but the road there? Completely at the benevolent mercy of chance and the beautiful whim of impulse. We set out for Scaelor – a stunning realm bristling with venerable forests home to dryads and druids, rolling farmlands cared for by cozy homesteaders; its rich legacy ever-present in the many ruins scattered around its periphery. The feigned adulation of its tyrannic past on full display. The high and mighty disguising their violent urges and want for control in the dragon’s visage. Willingly held captive by the flickering shadows of the past – never choosing to escape to the sunlit skies of the present! We’ve seen so much radiance and kindness here – vita est, spes est! There is life, there is hope!
 
And we first disembarked in Honeyport. A sleepy village, victim of deliberate administrative neglect, impoverished but unbowed. Thus tyranny slumbers, and the people live freer than others under its yoke. Due to favourable winds, we didn’t worry about time. So, off into the outer edges of the Feyfire Forest we went, tripping into Bill the grippli! He was a little apprehensive – who wouldn’t be upon meeting three strangers, two of them nearly four times taller than you, heavily armed, and clad in steel and gold; the last one being an actual dignitary from contemptible Kang, dressed in white and emanating pure, distilled arrogance? But we had a lovely few days together! Meeting his animal friends, seeing how he cares for the forest, exchanging tales from our journeys, and even having dinner with the Duststones – a sweet married couple, they run a farm south of Bill’s home. I was sad when we had to leave. But I promised to return whenever we passed by!
 
We next found ourselves strolling towards the Treetop Tavern, which comfortably takes a high spot, and not just metaphorically, in my list of favourite taverns – beating the Sleeping Bastard, certainly. Not the Gilded Mermaid, because they operate their own bathhouse – with free entry to all guests. In truth, I have trouble remembering much from our stay there. I had a bit much to drink. But I recall defusing a confrontation between Pierre and the owner. Or maybe it was the other way around? And what did Ki'tor do to earn the ire of the bouncer?
 
The last stretch of the journey to Vael’s Rest brought us outside the walls of Vel Arynth. But looking like we do, and being foreigners, and not being wizards (a point frequently emphasised by Ki'tor), we agreed to simply grace its outskirts with our presence and move on. We avoided the Mage’s Road for good measure and trotted alongside a scenic lake coast. Pierre thought me ridiculous to spearfish! Maybe he was correct, but it was fun! Those were our last days of aimless sightseeing, after all.
 
We will be upon Vael's Rest soon, after crossing the bridge. I hope my eminent friend’s intuition is better this time – I have no wish to offer my expertise in the aid of impatient chercheurs de l’abîme.
 
“Republican legate.” It is my sincere wish that I never have to pretentiously invoke that sinecure. But thank you for conferring it, Jeanne. The gesture is well-intentioned. If I believed in such things, I’d call us even! But perhaps we already are – you survived that sailing madhouse. That alone merits my gratitude.