Clip clop, clip clop, clip clop. My horse's hooves strikes the sodden earth as it strides down a winding dirt road. As the landscape opens in decent view, I whip the reins and grind the horse to a halt.
I absorb the amazing view. The lakefront wafts an amazing olfactory sensation, as the vibrant colors of dusk reflect off the cold, calm, and refreshing waters. The lake seems as big as the oceans themselves, but alas it has it's rounded end.
Dotting the edges of the lake are trees, and at the far end, a bleak forest lined with shadows and general disdain. I will attempt to avoid that.
As I inhale the fresh lakefront air, I pull out my container, and unravel a fresh map. I reach down into a leather pocket stitched onto the horse's saddle, and retrieve my ink and feather.
As I study the landscape, I document it's features and land in wonderful detail on my papyrus scroll. The rolling hills and outlining darkness of the foreboding forest someways to the north of the lake.
As I am the charter, the lands are mine to name. Sometimes it's easy, other times, not so much. I stare in wonderment at the amazing sight this lake has brought, but I am also slightly anxious about the dark forest staring, and watching, waiting for me to enter it's domain.
'The Waiting Lake', as the name enters my mind, and I review it's fallacy, I deem it good, and scribble it on top of the sketch of the lake itself. Another feature of land in the Windshear Valley.
As my sightseeing ends, I pack away my cartography materials, and take up the reins. I lash them forward, and my steed strides gently towards the black and sinister forest ahead.
I sense danger in the upcoming, so reposition the rapier onto my belt, for a quick draw in case a fiend attempts to take my life. A world yet unclaimed, and filled with savages lacking a home to claim as theirs.
A world yet to be seen, a virgin land, yet to be experienced, and inevitably taken advantage. I am not a favorer of these prospects, but my job is my job, and I am currently the best in the business.
As my soliloquy cuts itself short, the nightfall is imminent, and I sit at the entrance to something potentially life-threatening. I pull out my torch and enkindling, and I swiftly strike it against a high-rising rock, igniting the stick.
Slightly past the entrance lies an eroded archway, something that has clearly been there long before this forest was. As it was lined in writing even I was unfamiliar with. I trod up, and as the colorless void of the night sky engulfs the already pitch-black forest, I reach out and touch the ancient stone.
A connection is made, something has been here before us, and it may not be as benevolent as our pretenses suggest.
YOU ARE READING
The Charter
AdventureMy 2nd Wattys Entry. A man and his horse, trudging through landscape, and documenting the land and people he encounters along his travels.
