A wrinkled old man in a simple gray robe plodded along through the forest at the behest of what he could only assume were the gods he'd turned his back on so long ago. Weeks before a voice had whispered to him in his mind telling him to answer it's call. He'd politely told the voice to go away and thought nothing more of it. The next few days it firmly asked him to answer it and he told it to piss off. Then, the voice shouted at him to go to its calling and he'd shouted even louder and told it to piss right the fuck off. It wasn't until the voice became a constant scream like a spoiled child demanding sweet rolls that the surly cleric had thrown up his hands and agreed to go.
	That was several days ago. Now, he trudged through along the road toward a mysterious goal which he was sure was a spiteful trick by the gods. He stopped when he heard a noise of someone stomping toward him from around a bend of the main path toward the accursed call that was plaguing his mind. He didn't stop, simply took hold of his mace and continued walking, albeit more slowly and looking over his shoulder. Perhaps whatever the stranger was running toward wouldn't concern him although he had a gut feeling it very much did.