[hr][h1][center][color=fff79a]Barnaby Eyre[/color][/center][/h1][hr]

Barnaby would never forget the sight of the land he'd come home to when he'd returned from the couple days' trip to Nadska to sell the vegetables and latest works from his forge. Everything, burned, smashed, demolished, level to the ground. He'd sunk to his knees, his hooves digging into the earth. He'd closed his eyes, opened them, and then closed them again. Still, the barn, his home, all of it was in shambles on the ground. Nothing had survived.

Desperately, Barnaby called the names of his employers, the people who had treated him so much like family, that they felt the part. He even called the name of the old sheepdog as he tossed his pack to the ground, the bedding unrolling into a heap on the ground. He raced to the barn, only to find the overpowering stench of death too much for him to bear. He promptly leaned a hand against an infirm and disintegrating pole, and emptied his stomach. He'd had to turn away from the barn, surely the sheepdog was in there. Giving up his search, he could feel his eyes stinging, tears threatening to spill over. He didn't even want to look in the residence, surely Mr. and Mrs. Thompson had met a even more gory fate than dying in a collapsed barn.

He'd heard about the monsters attacking farms, worried that one day they would come for his own home. Now that the day had finally come, he realized that he had no idea what to do now. He was positively terrified, and had no where to go. His best option right now was to go into Nadska and see if he could find some kind of work to try and keep his head above water. Within a couple of hours, he'd recollected himself, and resolved to put the skills he had to use in Nadska.

He traveled another couple of days back into Nadska, each day even more depressing than the last. Now, he was only a night's run from Nadska. He'd unrolled his bedding, and was now trying to start a fire with wood that had been dampened from rain the nights before. Finally, he'd found some tinder that was dry enough to light, and chased a spark into a small flame. He sat back on his hooves, slowly feeding in the smallest, driest sticks he had, until the fire was big enough to put in some larger logs. Satisfied that the fire would still be alive if he returned from foraging soon, he set into the woods, bringing his hunting knife and a burning stick with him. It was always good to keep those on hand, never know what, or who, you might meet in the woods at night. 

A rustle in the branches alerted Barnaby to a squirrel, sitting in a tree, chewing on some kind of nut. Quietly, Barnaby drew his hunting knife, and threw it. The knife hit the squirrel, knocking it from the tree. Barnaby rushed forward to catch it, and pulled his knife out of the animal, wiping it on the grass and resheathing it. He trotted back over to his makeshift campsite, picking up a stick and sharpening it as he went.

Soon enough, the squirrel was skinned and roasting over the fire, and Barnaby was watching it, his stomach growling. When it was ready, he took it off, quietly ate his dinner, and let himself rest an hour before continuing on. Dropping to all fours and shifting to his faster form, he threw the bag that could function as a back sack or a saddle bag onto his back, before continuing on his way to Nadska.

It was easier to travel in horse form, not only could he travel slightly faster, but he had more stamina that way. Within another three or four hours, he had arrived in Nadska. Thankfully, he got to a gate with a guard that was willing to let him in. Heading for the nearest tavern and inn, he shifted back to bipedal. Too many times he had been mistaken for a stray farm and animal, and someone had tried to lasso him and lead him to their farm. Too many times he'd shifted back and scared the wits out of somebody, who promptly got a firm talking to on taking the first animal they saw.

He hit his head on the doorframe as he came in, cursing quietly under his breath and stumbling loudly on his hooves. He rubbed his head, frowning slightly, and headed up to the bar. He towered over most people, who muttered under their breath. He'd learned to ignore the stares, and began to assume it wasn't something on his face, just someone who hadn't seen an elusive ipotane before. He settled into a bar chair, the poor thing creaking under his heavy weight. [b][color=fff79a]"I'll have a strong whiskey, please."[/color][/b]