After sustaining a blow to the head by some bandit-leader-type-character, you sit down on a rock to collect yourself. Nothing feels right until the moment you remember the stale bread and dried meats neatly packed into your backpack.
No one said that it would snow. The miserable trek up a mountain side only had one small reprieve: a ledge with bare, stony ground. When the stars come out you creep into your personal castle of fabric and hides – it will pass.
You have dragged this heavy and bulging sack three days down-river. The strap gnaws on your leg each step you take. Your friends sneer at you for being over-packed. That night, as they take refuge under a pine tree, you fall asleep to the pitter-patter of rain against the canvas.
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As the Innkeeper’s rendition of “Oat meal with oats” hits your bowl and a cold gust of wind seeps up through a crack in the floor boards you wonder: Why did I ever become an adventurer? Ah, yes - for the glory!