The horizon was going orange, the sky a deep royal blue and its clouds pink and purple. It would be a beautiful sunset over the western mountains, but today Mort wouldn't be watching it. Instead he kept his eyes ahead, fixed on the fields, slopes, stones, and trees that stood between him and the Northern Road. He took each step one at a time, moving deliberately and forcibly. Part of him wanted to turn back, and it spoke with a loud voice. Walking northward was nothing new, but today that woeful part of him knew it was being dragged somewhere it did not want to go. Like a cat into a bath, it struggled to escape, but Mort willed himself onward. That same voice, with its dulcet tones urging reason and caution, had saved his life twice. But these days he no longer felt alive.

Most every day for ten years Mort had at least glimpsed that setting sun, marking the end of another twenty-four hours for Fero Province. For a time each day felt like an achievement, a token of survival at the expense of those hunting him. Just living felt like a rebellion against corruption, against the cruel few that wanted him dead. He enjoyed the peace and plenty of the province, growing close to its residents and living his life, thinking of the deadly presence that lurked outside the borders a welcome barrier against the outside world. He hunted game, lent his strength to construction, and taught the young ones how to shoot. But after a time that existence ceased to satisfy. The same old fruit, the same old vegetables, the same old faces and places. What once brought him joy and fulfillment turned to ashes in his mouth. His body wasn't made for standing still after all. He'd had enough of it. He needed to wander. But no matter how many times he thought about leaving, he remembered the slaughter, and he stayed.

Ten years was a long time. He traced every corner of the province, scouring every yard until nothing new remained to him. Then, he languished. He drowned the spirit that starved for roaming and adventure with far more tangible spirits, and drifted apart from his friends. He never went bad, or slothful, but then again he never went anywhere. This, he came to know, wasn't living. That was why this time he would not turn and run.

Lost in his thoughts, the bowman only discovered how far he'd come when he spotted the first cairn. With a start he realized that he already stood close to the edge, the brink between Fero and the Northern Road. Behind him lay survival, but ahead lay life. Or death.

Mort looked around. Just one fellow member of the expedition seemed to precede him, a brown-haired woman in leather adorned with plating. Fero managed to be a large enough region that not everyone knew everyone, but in his isolation Mort made it a point to at least meet everyone interesting. The call of the nobles of the Pigeon Capital hardly constituted the first time embarking northward crossed Mort's mind. All those who might serve as reliable allies on any hypothetical expedition piqued his interest, and this one Mort knew. [i]Gallia.[/i] Not a sociable woman who disclosed much of her past, but nobody could see her and not presume she'd been fighting from a young age. Though a mercenary like him, he mostly hunted beasts and ran security, while she spilled the blood of men on real battlefields...over a decade ago, at least. As far as Mort knew, that longsword on her back had been collecting dust the whole time the Beast's reign of terror lasted. In a place like Fero that nobody could either leave or enter, fighting turned out to be a distinct rarity. Mort kept himself sharp by hunting, teaching, and diligent training, having never put the thought of fighting a way out of Fero from his head, but Gallia? Could she even slay a bear?

With a grunt, Mort stepped forward to stand level with her, facing northward. Well, he didn't need her to slay the Beast, or even a bear. Just to forge bravely onward and stick in the Beast's jaws long enough for him to plant an arrow in its eye. He glanced at the bow he held, used now as an impromptu walking staff. [i]Blackeye Longbow.[/i] Though long kept and lovingly maintained, it carried no grandiose name earned from some battle, or other ornamentation to hint at a past, just a brief description of its function. Like himself. Mort also looked around, seeing nobody else gathered. [i]Some expedition.[/i] No caravan, no carriage, no horses, not even a wheelbarrow. Would an official from the Capital even show up? [i]Fat chance.[/i] Mort doubted the nobles putting him up to this even went to the trouble of learning their newest toadies' names. After all, why spare the effort after all this time, all those disappearances? Nobody believed they could do it, that they could slay the Beast. Did he, even?

Mort gave a heavy sigh. Well, hopefully more people appeared soon. Two didn't make for much of a party.