Day 11


The journey to Faldor went by without any real obstacles barring my path. Fenston managed to
slip into the marsh a few times, but never so bad that I could not pull him back out. The
marshes of Valdrel are treacherous indeed, and straying from the path means certain death
for those who do not know how where to put their feet.

I am greeted by the welcoming light of Faldor’s one and only tavern as I approach:
the Trout Bucket, which seems to be the second largest building in town, beat only by the
town hall, in which the mayor and town council reside.
There is a local lawman, and his three assistants, but other than that I see little in way
of a guardforce. Not much else to expect though, really. It is a quiet little town where not
much seems afoot.
People do not talk much around these parts, but that is to be expected in Valdrel. We are
men and women of few words, and rarely speak unless we ahve something to say.
I did manage to persuade an old local though, with the aid of a mug of ale, to indulge me
a bit in regards to the village’s hstory. Faldor was according to the old man actually
“New Faldor”, the original village supposedly burnt down by the church in ages past because
of a rather nasty incident involving a witch hunt gotten out of hand.
If one travels but a day southwards, one can still spot a charred pole or two where Old Faldor
used to stand on wooden platforms rising from the murky waters. I believe I will visit this
place, and see for myself.



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