[b]Radley
[/b]
On the high slopes of the Ryu Mountain range a savage wind blew. It whipped at Radley’s face, reddening his bare skin with its vicious chill, and, from the corners of his half-open eyes, streaks of tears ran to his hairline. One fist was clamped tightly around the brim of his sugegasa, the conical straw hat that sat upon his head, as the silk ribbon that normally held it adequately was fraying in the wind, and would not doubt have snapped under the force of a particularly strong gust. The hat was tilted slightly forward, in an attempt to further shield his eyes. 

It had not been this bad when he started up the mountain pass, but Radley knew the risks taking this route during the early spring; its weather was temperamental at best. Weighing this against cutting at least a week of his travels times had led to Radley deciding it was worth it, which in turn, led to his current predicament. As if to spite him, a solitary figure on the mountainside, the weather took a turn for the worse, and he had to spend two days in a cave eating cured rabbit flesh around a meagre fire whilst waiting for the lashing hailstorm to clear. He had deemed it safe for travel on the third morning, and found that the wind was still as vehement as ever, but it was bearable. 

In his other hand, Radley held his trusty staff, an old friend, who seemed to be an extension of his very body, which he currently used to traverse a section of loose shingles, with boulders jutting up sporadically from it. It was tricky; even with Radley’s quickstep and light footfalls it began to slide down, and the wind seemed to wish to throw him of balance all the while, forcing him to break into almost a run, until he reached the solace solid of ground.

As he crested the final rise, he was greeted with a downwards slope and a magnificent view; the weather had since cleared up and offered a flawless azure backdrop to the expansive landscape, rolling hills and dense woodlands. He could also see a colourful gem on the horizon, the colloquially coined Starter Town, closer to a small city than a town with all the commerce and foreign embassy it saw. 

Back in Bjorfrost, a northern frontier town whose mayor was indebted to Radley, the monk had heard rumours of a coming festival in the South, housed in the town he saw before him. Even that far north the people were excited, and there seemed to be a frantic dash to catch as many Knuckledhead from the icy lakes as possible, and carve trinkets from their sought-after, oversized skulls, which fetched a pretty penny on the southern market. The day Radley had left, the fishing trawlers were out in swarms, practically covering the lake, and it would have been a miracle in no fighting occurred due to disputes over catches. With a sparked curiosity, he had decided it was time to move on, and what better place to go than this renowned festival, and see first-hand if it was worth all the fuss. 

He adjusted the pack on his back, and with his spirits raised from the sighting of the town, Radley made good pace down the shallow climb of the mountain pass, and soon trees started passing him as he descended into lands more hospitable. He was headed for the River Aern, which ran straight through Starter Town, and would take him the rest of his journey without much concern for navigation, allowing each footfall to come gaily as his mind wandered and he soaked in the warm sunshine. Once he was alongside the river, which swathed its way through land quickly becoming wooded, he was treated to the merry twitter of birdsong too. The river was illustrious in the sunlight, like liquid diamond flowing free. When Radley rested at noon whilst the Sun passed its zenith, the water did not disappoint; each mouthful was revitalising and so cold it felt like it was cutting your mouth, and it washed away the residual saltiness of the cured meat with welcome efficiency. 

Onwards Radley trudged, his boots crunching in the wet sediment of the riverside, his staff offering stability and an extra driving force. He was making good pace, but knew he would not make the town in time; he had only just reached one of the winding dirt tracks that had been trodden in by numerous travellers and trading caravans. He followed this path for close to an hour, only seeing a single rider pass him in this time.

The sky was beginning to stain vermillion with the setting sun, and blue strips of cloud hung in wait of the coming night. Radley turned off the path before reaching the main cobblestone road that ran from Starter Town to New Harbour, and into the woodland running parallel to it. It sloped downwards, forcing Radley to lift his staff up on the ground and trot down so he didn’t fall face-first, and likely spill the contents of his pack. 

As the Sun touched the horizon, Radley had found a suitable place to camp: a ring-copse of trees, not too far from a road in the hopes wild animals kept away, which he could sling his hide covering between for shelter. In the ring made by the trees there were also several boulders, one of which he used to semi-shelter his fire, from the elements, and any unsavoury eyes, and another he slung his burden over, sitting on the only remaining, and also flattest, moss-covered stone. He yanked of his boots, after unbuckling them, and stretched, wriggling his toes, the nip in the air a welcome change from the sweltering atmosphere of his boots. His arms reached far above his head, his back cracked audibly once, and he let of a yawn.

The camp was easily set up; the covering, a mesh of sewn together animal hides, acted almost like a tent when slung between the branches of three trees, and retained much of the heat from the fire. Radley then went about skinning the three rabbits he had caught and not eat eaten on his journey, intending to feast upon one now, and quickly cure the other two overnight. 

The sun was now a semi-circle of blazing fire, dropping slowly into the ground on the horizon.