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	The wagon departing with the party is most certainly not the only one leaving Darenby and headed west. Most of the others are larger, merchant affairs, though many are personal conveyances a little smaller than the solders' wagon lent to the group. This is a well traveled road by the standards of the time; many shod hoofprints and wheel marks could be seen on the road, brown dirt contrasted against rough stone and ruts carved into otherwise packed clay or gravel being the norm, showing the passage of vehicles over time. 

	Rolling hills stretch across the landscape, dotted with trees showing the ironically warmer colors of autumn or bravely holding out with more verdant tones against the coming cold. The sun stands boldly in the sky, doing its best against the fresh frost of the night. Places of shade still show the opaque dusting of crystalline white, reminding those who look upon it that the weather is indeed turning. This was a threat well heeded by the farmers of the region, who even then ran about their fields with as much help as they could muster in these early hours, inspecting their harvests of fruit, grain, and vegetables. They picked and stored what they could and did their utmost to protect that which needed just a little bit longer. At the end of Harvestide all of this would be complete and the winter preparations would commence. 

	Those versed in agriculture would also recognize the death march of pigs and large domestic animals. Others would simply see a number of different locals leading livestock up the road in rope trains or groups of crated pigs in the back of heavy wagons, getting onto the road for just long enough to take them to the nearest village which featured organized butchering, else in the case of smaller operations they might handle it themselves. The creatures mostly looked bored, unaware they were being marched to their inevitable deaths and subsequent conversion into foodstuffs. 

	The journey deeper into the region of Avonshire was beginning to show ample reason as to how it got its name, for any linguists that were wondering. Cutting amid the rolling hills were streams and tributaries which broke off from one or more rivers which flowed unerringly toward the sea. Ponds dotted the landscape as well, some smallish and some lakes in their own right. One of the later groups of migrating waterfowl could be seen gathering atop the glassy surface of one such body of water, only to take off en masse as some local kid tossed a stone into the midst of them, resulting on a plop, splash, and great rustle of feathers. 
	
	Avonshire is not an especially large place, though even one poorly versed in farmcraft can tell that this place is likely responsible for food production covering a disproportionately larger population. 

	The wagon rolled along, occasionally passed by those traveling east and sometimes sharing a stretch of road with those moving in the same direction as themselves. Hats were tipped, the occasional "Howdy" uttered by Humans and Halflings alike. The sightings of people occured in waves, usually predicting the existence of a village or hamlet over the next rise. Fishing poles dotted lines in the waters of ponds and streams despite the sudden onset of colder weather, indeed it seemed to spur the fisherfolk on. Between these waves of scant to moderate population the land stretched out to seemingly infinite proportions. This was an idyllic piece of countryside with honest, hardworking folk and passing merchants alike - truly an excellent place to retire or raise a family. And yet, far too many of these good and wholesome people had a metaphorical shadow over their faces; the outward signs that they detected, if only subconsciously, that something insidious was afoot in their little section of prosperity.