“Let us hope that they are few then, or that it will at least be enough to stall them if it will not satiate their appetite,” Radley said, as one rabbit would not go far between a pack of wolves, though he smiled to himself and nodded in approval of the idea. Any time they could buy themselves would be vital, and perhaps an easy meal, regardless of size, would dissuade them from pursuing the much more deadly prey of Marcus and Radley, prey who could fight back with greater lethality. 

Placing the pelts carefully in his pack, Radley swung it onto his back, leaning against his staff idly as Marcus kicked out the fire. This stranger’s acts of kindness would not go unrewarded; Radley would make sure of it, and he had a debt to Marcus now, not matter how small, and Radley would repay him when he saw the opportunity, in accordance to the tacit code of those who wander the road. Hospitality was as valuable as gold on the road, as both made journeys easier by tenfold. 

“To the joy of festivities then,” Radley toasted; he too hoped to see what the festival held. He had overheard the conversations of merchants and anglers in Bjorfrost of what he might expect: culinary delights, performers that could swallow fire and swords, exhibition duelling from the finest swordsmen in the South and beyond, and even an open tournament in which all could partake.

“We should try and reach the main road before dark,” Radley stated, “The light of the lanterns will shield us from much of the night’s hardships, and other travellers may be arriving late also. It will be the safest place.” 

He began walking through the tree-line, leaving the clearing behind, lifting his staff every second step to match his pace. 

“Tell me Marcus, from where have you come?”