Malcolm sat up, blinking as the morning light hit his eyes. Confused, he looked around for a few seconds before remembering where he was. The grassy hills that hid Toehalla extended as far as the eye could see in every direction. The thin brown earthen scar left by the Toe-Worm’s attack was just visible in the distance.

Almost hidden within the lush grass, Sven lay a few feet away, deep in slumber. Curled into a ball, the Toe-Goblin gently snored, creating the only noise in the silent hills.

Working as quietly as he could, Malcolm lit the fire and began preparing the remaining rabbit from the previous night’s meal. Hung on a spit over the fire, it popped and sizzled as Malcolm slowly turned it. Before long, the smell of wood smoke and roasting meat wafted across the hillside.

“I see you’ve finally been makin’ yourself useful!” Sven exclaimed, rubbing his eyes and sitting up. “It was takin’ you long enough.” Across the fire, Malcolm chuckled at the joke.

“I figured I should start pulling my weight around here or else next time you might just leave me to the Toe-Worm.” They sat in silence for a few minutes, wordlessly watching the meat spin above the fire. At last, Malcolm removed it from the flames, satisfied with his results.

As they were eating, Sven pulled a map from one of his pouches and spread it out across the grass. Malcolm moved closer to the Goblin, leaning over to get a better view of the parchment.

“We be here,” Sven said, pointing to a spot in the hills, “and from the last reports, the Tribes be here.” He pointed North-West of their location, where a thin road cut through the mountains. A small label marked the spot as ‘Craighold’. Built atop the only natural path through the Fancar Mountains, up until recently Craighold had kept the Northern Tribes at bay.

“So where do we go?” Malcolm asked. “I’m assuming you have some sort of plan?”

Sven thought for a few seconds, recalling his idea. “Last time I was checkin’, we ain’t got any supplies. The closest place to be getting’ them is here.” He pressed his finger next to a small label on the map. ‘Bullhaven’. Situated almost directly due West of their position, the town rested at the edge of a forest and the hills.

“Isn’t that…” Malcolm began to say.

“Where we was before leavin’ for Toehalla? Yes. It’s a good place to stock up. You be knowin’ the layout and I be knowin’ the route.”

“What about money?” Malcolm asked. From his pocket he pulled out a few copper pieces. “This is all I’ve got. It probably isn’t enough to buy the supplies we need.” As he spoke, Sven produced a few coins of his own, depositing them in Malcolm’s outstretched palm.

“This should be coverin’ a few nights at the Inn. You’ll be workin’ for anythin’ else we need.” the Toe Goblin said. Malcolm groaned at Sven’s words, falling back onto the soft grass.

“Alright…” he muttered after a few seconds, pulling himself back up. “You said the Toe-Worm won’t follow us for a few days, right?” he asked as Sven rolled up the map.

“If you be askin’ if we’ll be safe in Bullhaven, then I be thinkin’ we will.” Sven said, stuffing the parchment in a pouch. “The Almighty Toe isn’t tellin’ us much about the Worm, but I’m guessin’ we’d be far out of its range by then.”

After gathering together their meager supplies, most of which belonged to Sven, they spent a few minutes extinguishing the fire and spreading the ashes around the area, masking their presence from potential pursuers. The burnt grass circle under the flames could not be removed, but they tore up some grass and covered it up.

With the remains of their camp obscured, Malcolm and Sven began their trek through the seemingly endless hills. Covered in a thick layer of grass, the ground rose and fell in every direction, until the landscape blended together beyond recognition. Occasionally patches of small yellow flowers rose above the grass. Bees swarmed them, fighting for a chance at the precious pollen inside.

The day passed slowly as Malcolm and Sven trudged through the hills, frequently stopping to catch their breath. Without water flasks, they relished the occasional stream, stopping to bask in the cool spray. The dark grey outlines of the Fancar Mountains were just visible to the North, their jagged peaks rising far beyond the clouds.

As he walked, Malcolm kept his eyes open for any small game to catch, but was unsuccessful in his search. Recent rains had washed away any tracks and the thick grass hid any burrows or tunnels. I guess I was lucky finding that rabbit. he thought, remembering the tender meat as his stomach growled with hunger. It too remembered.

Hours dragged along as the hills rose and fell beneath their feet. Malcolm’s stomach ached, gnawing away at itself in hunger. The food he had eaten that morning had long since burned off. Glancing over at Sven, he could see the Goblin grimace as his little stomach rumbled.

Around midday while they rested near a small stream, Sven gently pulled a few green wafers from his pouch.

“I was savin’ these for an emergency.” He explained, passing half to Malcolm, who snatched it out of his hand. Shoving some in his mouth, he grimaced as the grit crunched between his teeth. The moss itself was tasteless, the only flavor coming from the minerals that coated the outside.

After the short meal, they set off again with new energy. As they grew further and further from Toehalla, the landscape began to flatten out, the hills slowly disappearing. Small trees and bushes sprouted from the ground, bent into odd angles from the winds.

By late afternoon, they had arrived at their destination for the night. Sven had remembered a large river a few miles from Bullhaven, well beyond the sight of the settlement. The river cut through the landscape, weaving between the hills as it went. Crystal clear, the water reflected the setting sun’s light. Small pebbles coated the bottom of the river, tumbling along as the current caught them.

Filling their mouths with water, Malcolm and Sven basked in the cool flow, all their aches and pains floating away.

As much as they longed to spend more time in the water, the light was fading fast and they needed to make camp. While Malcolm gathered brushwood for a fire, Sven tried fishing in the river. Without a hook or line, he resorted to standing in the water and waiting for a fish to get within stabbing distance.

Every few minutes a school of young salmon would float by, keeping a weary distance from the Toe-Goblin. Sven eyed them carefully, slowly shuffling deeper into the water, until his prey was within striking distance. Then, with a loud splash he pounced, driving the blade through the water.

Malcolm couldn’t help but chuckle as he watched Sven dive into the water, only to come up seconds later empty handed. Water poured from the tips of the Goblin’s ears, splashing back into the river. After several unsuccessful attempts, Sven’s efforts paid off and he skewered a fat salmon. Shouting triumphantly, he held his prize high, cackling as it wiggled on the blade.

Spurred on by his hunger, Malcolm quickly prepared the fish and set it out to cook on a flat rock by the fire. Soon the succulent aroma of roasting salmon filled their nostrils, and for the second night in a row, they feasted on hot meat. Unlike the night before, they picked the bones clean, savoring every last morsel.

Sven spent some time sharpening his dagger for the next morning’s fishing and Malcolm checked his arrows. But as the fire burned low, they settled in for the night. Soon the aches and pains of the day’s activates lulled them into a deep slumber and they fell asleep on the bank of the river.