The Mage in the Iron Mask - Brian Thomsen [17]
The following morning, Volo rose before dawn, assembled his pack and scribbled down a hasty note assuring the stout thespian that he would return in a few days. He grabbed a fast breakfast, which Dela was more than willing to provide, and left the inn. The master traveler rented a horse from a nearby stable and set out for his next destination.
The sun was just inching over the horizon when the most famous gazetteer in all Faerun passed Southroad Keep. Nodding to the city watch, who didn't pay him much attention as they were more concerned about the apparent tardiness of their relief, he passed through the city gate, and was on his way.
The absence of the city walls and buildings removed all obstructions from the force of the wind, and Volo quickly drew up a spare blanket that he had packed just for this reason, and draped it around himself as if it were a cape. Fastening it in place with a clasp, and then placing one hand on his beret and one hand on the reins, he spurred on the steed with a quick kick and "giddy-yap."
Volo looked around him as he rode, taking in the scenery, and mentally assembling descriptive passages and entries for the guide.
The mountains, he thought to himself, seem to create some sort of wind tunnel. The breezes off the Moonsea were magnified by the funnel effect as they roared through, making everything seem colder than it should be. I must remember, he noted, to include a cold weather warning and a warm clothing advisory in the book.
With the exception of the mountains themselves, the rising sun had very little to illuminate on the landscape through which the master traveler rode. Mulmaster was surrounded by rocky, barren lands which further magnified the gloom of the smokey industrial city. The sure-footed stallion had little problem making its way over the rugged and unforgiving ground, with only a minimal amount of direction from its well-traveled rider.
Even though the smoky fog of Mulmaster was far behind and out of sight in no time at all, the gloom and bleakness of the jagged terrain remained as Volo continued on his way. The skies were almost as uninhabited as the ground, with only the occasional bird of prey or vulture breaking up the grey monotony that reached upward as far as the eye could see.
The master traveler seemed oblivious to the lifelessness around him, and contented himself with putting together new and different phrases to describe the barren landscape. Occasionally he would pass an abandoned farmhouse or inn, and would wonder what ill-fortuned farmer or hostler was foolhardy enough to try to ply his trade there. Further on in his journey, he began to pass larger abandoned structures that almost resembled Southroad Keep. From the research notes that he had prepared prior to setting out on his journey, he knew that they were monasteries and habitats for contemplative orders that had long fallen by the wayside.
There must have been something about the austerity of the landscape itself that attracted the ascetic, introspective, hermit types that had the swelled the orders that had filled these citadels in years gone by. I guess they came looking for the meaning of life, didn't find it, and left, leaving their monastic dwellings behind, he thought.
The great gazetteer smiled.
Maybe I'll include something in the guide about these places being haunted to sort of make things more exciting. Local legends have to start somewhere, he surmised.
As Volo and his steed approached what remained of a stone arch that had in some earlier era provided egress for some now long bygone structure, the great gazetteer heard a scurrying like the scrambling of rats on a cellar floor. The master traveler smiled, and reached into the inner pocket of his cloak, the tips of his fingers caressing one of the numerous blades he had secreted on various parts of his person.
Company, he