< Back
Week 3: Overcoming Obstacles
How beautiful it all was, so majestic, so magical. Until they passed the bend in the road. The forest was cut, the grass was dead, the little town had a rolling head. Ancria was in no better shape than Mothdroth.
Further along the dismal road, laced with rot and filth, Barg and the scribe came to the river Armanthir. The rushing water had carved itself into the earth, 500 metres down to a sharp, wet doom. There used to be a bridge. The bridge was no more.
"Ohh m - my," stuttered the scribe,
"Ancria has seen better daays,"
"What's wrong?" said Barg.
"Even th -the bridge has fallen,"
The scribe didn't say any more.
They took a path along the river, always wary of the fall, high jagged stone peaks shadowing them all.
Then a claw.
A great beast with claws the length of mountains and teeth as jagged as the cold, hard rocks of the river lashed out at them from the shadows. It jumped the craggly old scribe and barely missed his fragile head with a fatal blow. Barg slashed at the terror with his sword, and the beast backed off a little. He picked up the scribe and ran, ran as fast as he had ever run before, away from the monster of the mountains.
Yet the beast had won, it had seized the Motharn's food supplies, it did not care for Barg or the scribe or anything. Barg was putrid and the scribe was so tiny it wouldn't be worth the effort. It took their lunch.
Now the challenge for Barg was food, he knew nothing of Ancria, stank of a demon and had nothing to pay with. The scribe was also unconscious.
It turned out to be quite easy, in the first town he got to along the road, the people all ran. Barg just took the food right from their houses. It was going to be a weird road ahead.
How beautiful it all was, so majestic, so magical. Until they passed the bend in the road. The forest was cut, the grass was dead, the little town had a rolling head. Ancria was in no better shape than Mothdroth.
Further along the dismal road, laced with rot and filth, Barg and the scribe came to the river Armanthir. The rushing water had carved itself into the earth, 500 metres down to a sharp, wet doom. There used to be a bridge. The bridge was no more.
"Ohh m - my," stuttered the scribe,
"Ancria has seen better daays,"
"What's wrong?" said Barg.
"Even th -the bridge has fallen,"
The scribe didn't say any more.
They took a path along the river, always wary of the fall, high jagged stone peaks shadowing them all.
Then a claw.
A great beast with claws the length of mountains and teeth as jagged as the cold, hard rocks of the river lashed out at them from the shadows. It jumped the craggly old scribe and barely missed his fragile head with a fatal blow. Barg slashed at the terror with his sword, and the beast backed off a little. He picked up the scribe and ran, ran as fast as he had ever run before, away from the monster of the mountains.
Yet the beast had won, it had seized the Motharn's food supplies, it did not care for Barg or the scribe or anything. Barg was putrid and the scribe was so tiny it wouldn't be worth the effort. It took their lunch.
Now the challenge for Barg was food, he knew nothing of Ancria, stank of a demon and had nothing to pay with. The scribe was also unconscious.
It turned out to be quite easy, in the first town he got to along the road, the people all ran. Barg just took the food right from their houses. It was going to be a weird road ahead.