The day is drawing to a close as the merchant’s cart rumbles along the rocky and mud strewn track. A fine rain permeates the air adding a slippery sheen to the deck boards of the cart. Sharing the cart with a half dozen casks of ale and a willowy cloaked teenager, who seldom speaks and whose demeanour is one of abjection, you peer into the gloom ahead or busy yourselves in other activities to pass the time.
The benches in the back of the cart are well worn, and require a constant shifting every so and often to alleviate aches and pains. You have been on the road for 2 days and all excitement of the talk of Glitterheagen has vanished, dampened by the melancholy weather. In the distance, a feint rumble of thunder rattles through the hill to the north east.
Turning a corner, the cart slows to a halt. Through the murk, you can see the cause of the interruption, a number of branches, boxes and other detritus has been strewn across the trail. The horse whinnies as the driver ties the reins, and stands in order to alight and investigate the hold up.