A series of stories that take place in the towns and cities that surround Shelter Forest: Willowridge, Coleville, Red Landing, Tandale, Chesterfield, Dulmountain City, and the Shoreton Ruins.
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Being on the road was rather terrifying for a woman traveling on her own, but you weren't wavering in your intent. You had to get to Dunmountain and disappear. You didn't care if you lived in a hovel shoveling shit for a living, you weren't marrying that man. Not in a million years.
A few days on the road sleeping rough hadn't done much to deter you, though it was cold and uncomfortable. You managed to get to Chesterfield long enough to buy road provisions and get rid of your old clothes, but you didn't want to stay there too long. You didn't know if they'd have people out looking for you.
You ached for a bath and a bed. You didn't realize how much you'd taken being clean and comfortable for granted. And it looked like rain tonight. You figured the horses wouldn't mind a bunk mate.
As you were coming around to go into the stables, it began to rain rather hard. As you ducked in, the stablehand shouted at you.
"Oy! Get out of here! No homeless wenches sleeping in here for free. Go get a room or sleep in a gutter!"
"Oh, but sir--"
"No buts! Out with you!"
You had no choice but to duck back out of the stable and into the pouring rain. You went around the back, praying that there was a cart you could sleep under.
Instead of a cart, there was a lovely lavender vardo parked there. The front and rear doors were locked, but there was a window. It was small, but you thought you could squeeze through. And if you got stuck, at least half of you would be dry.
The shutters had a latch on the inside, but it was easy enough to open with a hair stick. Using the wheel as a boost, you threw your bag inside and jumped up. Getting your shoulders through was the hardest part, and your hips were a bit of a struggle, but finally you fell to the floor of the vardo like a spilled sack of potatoes. Slightly bruised, you re-latched the shutter windows and looked around.
It was fairly neat and tidy, looking a bit larger on the inside that it did on the outside, with things secured safely to the walls and inside trunks. The walls had beautiful filigree scrolling all the way up and the roof had a lovely fresco of a countryside near a body of water, the field full of flowers. There were things that hung along the ceiling, making gentle jingling noises as the vardo moved.
There was a small cot latched up against the wall that would fold down. Wearily, you folded it down, pulled out your cloak, which was still dry in your bag, and laid it over the cot to prevent the wet from your clothes from seeping through, and settled down on it. You'd deal with the owner in the morning. If you weren't arrested for trespassing, that is.
Once you were horizontal, you fell asleep immediately.
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