The golden eyed stranger pressed his back against the wooden pole, his thick plated armor scratching against it as he did. He kept one palm on the pommel of his ashen sword and the other wrapped around the reigns of his stallion friend. 

	Although sleep taunted him, he did not answer, but rather stood diligently, eager to see the rays of dawn and the night clear of danger. 

	His eyes flickered to the left, and where his horse stood he saw the rotting face of a woman. Her eyes were sunken and a hollow yell echoed from her cut throat. The stranger blinked, and the vision was replaced with his horse happily scraping the road with a hoof. 

	The stranger let his eyes turn right and he looked at the apothecary for a while. He could hear the roars of flames and smell the acrid stench of cooking flesh. The man’s ears perked at the sounds of helpless bellows and low moans of hopelessness. He shook his head, and the sounds were replaced with the soft trill of the night time song birds and the relaxing song of the lazy crickets.

	He sighed, and on his exhale he could taste the salt of blood on his tongue. The stranger frowned at the taste, and it quickly was replaced with the strong taste of lavender that polluted his helmet. His nose crinkled at the familiar smell and he bit his lip, eager more to keep his head where his body is.