Page 44 - Chapter Five

5

 

The forest was silent as the remaining dark still loomed over the Southland. Only the sounds of insects and early birds echoed through the thick canopy of the Thorned Ridge. The smell of rain and wet Ansi root drifted through the air as gusts of winds rustled the vegetation. The storm from the night before drenched the entire landscape, small puddles gathered atop the water logged soil. Only a slight drizzle remained, but it was enough to worry the clay armed Awkid as he stood atop the deck of his tree house.

Revealing a rolled up cloth bandage from his green tunic, the dwarf began wrapping his strange limb from its fingers to his shoulder. Though it brought great power to the lone dwarf, it was a burden, especially in the rain. He finished quickly, double checking to see if everything was covered before he walked back into his home.

The room was dark aside from the dim light of a candle brushing against the walls of the small cabin. The Dwarf closed the door softly trying not to disturb his Hobbit guest who rested in the hammock across the room — exhausted from the beginning of an ambitious journey.

Awkid was still trying to figure out how the Hobbit managed to reach the pass alone, but more importantly why he would want to go to the Mog Brush. He saw his books and the strange stones he carried, it was certainly magic, he had seen it before. Awkid had a feeling he was dealing with someone who could be of use to him.

His eyes shifted to his now cloaked clay arm, it was a curse he didn't ask for, but perhaps a gift he deserved. In the past told himself there was no reason to seek out the Mystic who did this to him. Time simply passed by too quickly for him to question who she was. Yet lurking in the back of his mind was the desire to understand the truth.

Grabbing the candle from the table he walked to a short bookcase next to the door and lowered himself to one knee. The dwarf guided the candle across the shelves revealing an odd mix of books, some on hunting and foraging, others on cooking, there were even a few novels and stories he read on a rainy day.

To Balamor it would have been a mess, but Awkid had his own way of organizing things. Two books made their way to the vacant dining table with a third under the gaze of Awkid Anvorbeard. His eyes were glued to the text within the shabby cloth book he called his journal. It was nearly falling apart as he flipped through its pages. Years of travel were documented in this book.

He was almost a quarter through its contents when his bulky finger underlined the entry he was looking for. It was from his trip to the Mog Brush, or at least to its borders — the Bounds of Akinn.

The End

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