Rotgut whiskey to ease the mind. A calluses hand hid a slight tremble as it lifted the clay cup. No one dared to say anything. The Red Pony Inn saw hundreds of travelers between Malton Keep and the capital. Now, the road brought few travelers and fewer stories.

The scribe had lost track of Arkes the past week. He hoped he'd find him if he followed the usual path of destruction, but no luck. It seemed that Arkes slipped into the wind.

The scribe couldn’t let that happen. Not with the story unfinished. The people had to know the tale of Arkes Bloodthane. As for the scribe himself, he had changed too much to return to the monastery. His own hands were bloodied and callused as he followed the path of Arkes and his blade. He doubted he’d ever be considered a man of the cloth again.

The dark road from the inn rustled as the scribe tended to his horse. He’d picked up the stubborn mare with Arkes after trekking through the Tenari plains. His mount’s roan coat shone under the lantern. The scribe had to ask himself if he’d find a better treasure than this majestic animal. He doubted it, but as with all his doubts these days, he stuffed them between the loose threads that made up his life and knapsack. Under the watchful eye of a worm moon, the onetime priest rode into the Malton forest.

The path into the Malton forest had fallen into disrepair. The scribe had heard Malton Keep possessed a steady ruler and full treasury, but these roads and lack of guards said differently. The rustle that plagued the road outside the Red Pony kept pace with the scribe and his mount. The mare snorted every couple minutes as it pulled at the bit to look towards the brush by the side of the road. The scribe kept a tight hand on the reins and began silent prayers to Urthad and his vicious hands. The scribe couldn’t think of another god to ask for protection after riding under the shadow of Arkes.