~ A Long Road to Mushrooms is a story being played out in the past in one of the Knights's Forum RP threats. This is only my input. ~
The morning mist was still think in the air when he walked out of his cottage. Barely able to see the road that lies down the slope that his cosy house was build on, he turns towards his horse. Bulging bags of supplies, bedrolls, rations and weapons were tighten to the saddle. Galaren was getting too old for this, Zargondon thinks with a depressing shake of his head. Though the thoughts of acquiring a new steed has been plaguing him for some time now, never has he truly consider the option with complete earnest conviction. “He still has some life in him still”, has been his conclusion since he came to Bree all those months ago. The old wizen door creaks softly behind, shutting his house for the final time.Placing his foot on the stirrup and swinging nimbly onto the saddle, he starts to make his way on the already moist path down the hill, one last time checking behind him.
He’s told Brend, one of the gate guards, to watch over his house for him when he leaves. After all, the birds should be given daily water. Fresh, everyday, he has made sure that Brend understand this. His loving garden that he has been tending to since this became his house should also be looked after. Those damn stubborn weeds have been showing them selves between the beds to the right of the cottage, right behind his proud statues, just there where the wall meets the worked earth, right there. He even showed Brend where it was.
The heavy burden that his horse was carrying at least didn’t impede him too much. That was a good thing. Arrows, swords and daggers, all sharpened. Rations, bedrolls, blankets, all packed. Cloaks, extra leather, threats for mending, all stowed. He seems to be ready, but there is still something he’s missing, he knew. This nagging, irritating bug was constantly buzzing in his brain. What could it be? There was always something that one seems to forget. The wetstone! Eventually with a cloak hung over his arm, dagger shoved under armpit, pan clasped against his chest, he pulls out the small piece of sharpening tool. At least he’s got that. Though his swords were sharp and his bow still has a few spare strings that he can spun it with, having no wetstone would be disastrous.
With the clip-clop of hoves on the stone paved road that leads towards the Hall of the Knights, and the crisp breeze of Autumn air against the elf’s face, he makes his way slowly to meet Ramield and any that would join them on their way North. There’s still a lot that Vaerra needs to explain to him, though he hasn’t met her before, she seems to be the one that has the most knowledge of the mushroom that they would seek
