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positive that our leader had lost touch with the common man. If anyone had ever required proof of the notion that you cannot please all of the people all of the time, all they would have needed to do was set foot in this place and spend five minutes to gather all the proof that could possibly be required.
    The bar wench took the time to ask me conversationally where I was headed. I told her that I honestly had no idea. She winked at me and made it clear that if I had nothing in particular to do, she wouldn’t mind in the least taking on the task of keeping me occupied.
    All I could think about was how I seemed to be a virtual magnet for the fairer sex, and that this night, at least, I simply wasn’t in the mood. The recollections of what I was leaving behind were too recent, and the future too uncertain, for me to truly enjoy myself. So I looked up at her and told her that I simply had no interest, sorry, check with someone else.
    At least that was what I told her in my mind. What I said out loud was, “When do you go off duty?”
    Don’t misunderstand. Page was a lovely young woman and I felt a good deal for her, but she had made her position clear, and so I figured, why not have another lovely young woman in an entirely different position?
    Which was what I did. There’s no better way to bury your troubles than to bury yourself in someone else.
    I crept out of the room the following morning, taking care not to awaken her. I saw no reason not to be stealthy. That way I not only didn’t disturb her slumber, but I also didn’t disturb the slumber of the innkeeper, who was expecting to be paid for my lodgings there. By the time he awoke, I would be off on my way and a safe distance. When you think about it, I really did the man a favor by letting him sleep. He gained some muchneeded rest, plus with any luck he would never know that I had bedded his daughter, the serving wench for the evening. And the cost for my discretion and consideration was equivalent to the cost of a room for the night. It all came out even if you ask me.
    The last vestiges of the village thinned to nonexistence, and soon I was walking a pit-filled road that was likely traveled by either merchants moving from town to town peddling their wares, or else vagabonds such as myself who had really no particular destination in mind. Wandering about in Albion isn’t quite as commonplace as you might think. There are people who live in Mistpeak Valley, for instance, who will never in their lifetimes set foot in Brightwall, despite their proximity. There is a vast amount of regionalism in Albion, and many live lives of great isolation. Familiarity may breed contempt for some, but for most others, it provides security. Why leave home and take the risk of something’s attacking you, robbing you, or devouring you? Not that people’s homes were necessarily safer, but at least it was the monster they knew versus the monster they didn’t.
    I was passing through Mourningwood, an area that fairly cried out for the need to pay attention to the world around you. You generally knew when you’d entered Mourningwood. There was a ghastly amount of swamp and marsh, and so the entire area had an overall aroma of dead and rotting vegetation hanging over it. You got used to it if you stayed long enough, as I knew from personal experience, having served a tour of duty at an outpost that had once housed King Logan’s army. You also managed to adjust to the constant onslaught of hobbes and hollow men that routinely stalked the area. The latter in particular were in endless supply since apparently the residents of Bowerstone had filled up their own cemeteries to overflowing. So they’d taken to thinking of Mourningwood as their personal graveyard. Dumping bodies in rivers just causes them to come rolling in on the next high tide. Toss them into a swamp, and they’re gone for good. At least that was the thinking; hence the many