ATCL18 Gallivan to Ravenhill
The date in Cerwyn calendar is 337 - Brth - Delve - Eldrimar (Birt - Delf - EL-druh-mar) (337 - 2 - 3 - 9 - 109). There is full cloud cover, with light rain. The temperature is still cold (0-10C) and there is a very light breeze.The route westward from Gallivan begins with an eerie departure into the swampy mists that shroud the land for three leagues beyond the village. The road, little more than a muddy track, weaves precariously between sluggish pools of brackish water. The swamp's surface is broken by the occasional jagged stump of a long-dead tree, their gnarled forms emerging like skeletal hands reaching for the sky. Mist clings to the ground and rises in wispy tendrils, obscuring sightlines and muffling sound, creating an unsettling silence broken only by the occasional croak of frogs or the distant splash of something unseen moving through the water. The air here is thick with moisture and the pungent odor of decay, as if the swamp itself is alive and resentful of intruders. Low, scraggly trees with moss-draped branches loom over the path, their shadows stretching ominously in the dim light. Travelers feel as though they are being watched, whether by hidden predators or the swamp's own malevolent spirit. Progress is slow, as the road is uneven, riddled with ruts, and often partially flooded. Eventually, the swamp begins to thin, the mist dissipating as the road rises onto low hills. The oppressive atmosphere lifts, replaced by the fresh, cool air of higher ground. Here, the landscape opens up into a plain, a league or so of undulating grassland dotted with hardy wildflowers and the occasional weathered boulder. The road straightens and becomes firmer underfoot, a welcome reprieve from the swamp’s treachery. In the distance, the faint glint of sunlight on water reveals the presence of a river, and soon the road leads to an ancient stone bridge. Moss and lichen cling to the bridge's sides, and its arch spans the clear, steady flow of the river below. Crossing the bridge, the road begins to climb once more, this time into a wooded hill. The path narrows and twists, forcing wagons and riders to proceed with caution. The woods are dense, their canopy of intertwined branches casting dappled shadows across the road. Birdsong and the rustle of unseen creatures replace the swamp’s silence, though the occasional creak of an old tree in the breeze serves as a reminder that nature here still holds its secrets. As the road ascends, glimpses of the surrounding landscape appear between the trees—a patchwork of distant fields, forested slopes, and the shimmering ribbon of the river below. After a final turn in the road, the trees thin, and the hamlet of Ravenhill comes into view. Its cluster of cottages and the steady churn of its watermill are nestled in a shallow valley, flanked by the woods and open fields. Smoke from chimneys drifts lazily into the sky, and the faint clatter of the mill’s wheel greets travelers as they descend into this quiet, unassuming refuge.
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