The journey to Crane Hill is bleak and cold. Flies and mosquitos buzz up from the wet grasses as you follow the winding path through the marsh. An hour from the hill you pass an old farmer walking next to his ox. He grunts as he passes, not looking at you.
Should they try to talk with him, he will be willing to talk for a few minutes, but not longer; he wants to get out of the marsh by nightfall. He left Jackson Village just before dawn, and plans to stop an hour or so past the southern edge of the marsh.
“I was up visiting my sister in Jackson Village. Had some extra rutabaga, and some extra pears, thought I’d bring them up. Not entirely selfless. She’ll be bakin’ some pies, I’ll be pickin’ ’em up next week.”
He looks nervously up at the sun—or where you think the sun is through this haze.
“If’n I keep going I reckon I’ll be out of the marsh by sundown.”
If he likes them, he’ll tell them:
“I’d turn back if I were you. No way you’re going to be through by nightfall.”
“You don’t want to be in the marsh when the sun goes down, stranger. If you pick up speed and turn left at the crossing, you might be able to make Richard’s Cross by nightfall. Wouldn’t reckon on it, though. Still recommend turnin’ back.”
He won’t repeat the recommendation to turn back if he doesn’t like them—it would mean they travel with him the rest of the way. If they mention going into Delarosa Manor, he’ll say:
“Shadows walk in the woke house. Whisper in the walls.”
Related Pages
