A tremendous weight lifted from Balamor’s shoulders, this dwarf was in no condition to start any trouble, at least not with such an injury. The curious hobbit watched the stout figure crouch for a moment, feeling the earth beneath him. Balamor thought to himself, what if he is tracking something or someone? The curious hobbit crept forward, each step muffled by his hairy feet. Balamor stopped beside a tree and grabbed his leather pack from his shoulders before he heard a crashing sound of earth crush ahead. He snapped his head up but the sound ceased and the dwarf was gone, only a cloud of dirt settled in his place.
Gazing down at his bag he caught a glimpse of a green glow, his hand thrusted into the bag before plucking out his small book from his grandfather. He threw the book open and searched its contents, but the glow was gone, the pages still blank. He dropped the book into his pack and returned to the road, checking for the mysterious figure as he crept, but the stranger was no where to be seen.
In the middle of the road Balamor spotted the white cloth wraps which covered the right arm of the man. But these wraps had no trace of blood on them at all, only stained from the earth below. Whatever this man was covering didn’t seem to be a wound after all.
Balamor trekked the road for hours keeping a close eye for any sign of the dwarf he trailed, he would only stop to refill on water and rest his legs. He hoped he would reach the greatstone pass before sundown, but he wasn’t sure how much further ahead it was. The river was concealed with thick shrubbery and huge river rocks, the mesh of plants made it impossible to locate the river crossing.
The journey was exhausting his body, but his mind tried to evade the matter and focus on the task at hand. There had to be some way to travel this river faster. He pondered the idea of building a raft to navigate the waters, but knew his strength was not nearly enough to steer in the rough rapids, not mention his craftsmanship wasn’t anything to brag about.
The remaining heat of sun beat down on Balamor as he marched onward, the sound of crickets started to fill the air and nighttime began to take the southlands under its wing. Owls occasionally would holler in the distance breaking a strange stillness in the air. Steel blue eyes fixed on the trail ahead, waiting for a break in the thick bushes and trees choking the earth which Balamor traveled. Each step bringing him closer to the Mog Brush. He wondered what made such a place so mysterious, forgotten by most of the southlanders. It seemed almost wrong to lose such memories, whether or not they were unpleasant, a lesson was to be learned from their remains.
Did something stand in its place before it was a tormented land? Or has the Mog Brush been apart of these lands since their conception? The curious map maker had no answers to these questions, yet asking them reassured him that his journey was not without reason, but something which all men could benefit from. As much doubt as he had in himself, he knew someone must step up and do it if any benefit were to be made. Balamor felt a sense of purpose now, he knew his mission wouldn’t go unnoticed as the Mog Brush had for centuries.