Rousted from restless sleep by the screech of a dying animal he stumbled from his tent. The heavy clouds of the gray morning pressed down with a weight that made him hunch beneath the blanket draped over his shoulders.
Picking up the stout branch he had used as a walking stick the day before he poked the embers of the previous night's fire into a pile. Going down on hands and knees he breathed new life into the coals. The nuggets glowed an orange red and in their seams he saw the path he must travel.
The end of his journey was near. Before this day was ended he would be either the first survivor or the latest victim of the evil that had laid waste to this land.
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