Maroyahk placed the Crushclaw in Toroyahk’s outstretched hand, alongside a backpack that had been sitting down here for who-knows-how-long. “Pack slices of the freshest carrot. Those will last the longest,” Toroyahk and his father returned from the basement and covered it back up, as Toroyahk took the flint knife his grandmother made to process the huge carrots. He filled the sack with carrots, as well as a few pieces of harebell bulb jerky, sprinkled with salt and rosemary. He also picked up his father’s mouse head helmet. The wide snout helped shade his sensitive eyes. The neck of the helm was a plumage of striking red feathers from the pileated woodpecker’s crest, said to make snakes believe they were poisonous animals. This belief had a special meaning to Crebeic followers, as the God of Ivy was often represented as a beautiful feathered snake, and during times of old Ivyians would perform religious persecutions against Crebeians. The inside of the helmet was made of solid aluminum, to be lightweight enough to move with ease. The helmet had been in their family for generations, but it has never seen action. The Droyedins had a strange lack of a sense of family. They had originated as groups of what were essentially crazed monsters, raiding towns and making shoddy forts with sharpened branches and stone spears and axes. Maroyahk didn’t feel much of a need to give his son a proper sendoff, and Toroyahk didn’t expect one. Toroyahk walked around the village, waiting to see if he had something else to say. Eventually, Toro figured that it would just be best to leave, rather than to awkwardly return home for a proper goodbye. He headed for the ancient stone gate down the path through the clover. If you looked closely at the path, you could see many small pieces and shards of old shells from past battles, crushed by many trampling feet. The gates themselves were about a foot tall, made of old stacked stones, similar to the ones constituting the houses in the town. Moss had grown over so much of the archway, almost holding it together after all this time. Leaning against it were many swords, copper, iron, wooden, bone, left behind by all the honorable soldiers who died there throughout time. Walking through the gate was like exiting a bubble of safety, of life. Immediately outside the gate, the swamp and its forest ends. Beyond it, a large patch of dry, mossy earth, shaded by both the tall trees of the bog and a massive stone to the other side. This was the village’s hunting ground, as there were many mole hills and a few bird nests on the rock. Toroyahk slid the Crushclaw into his wrappings. There was a clear path through this dead land, and Toroyahk decided to go down the easy path rather than create his own. After a short walk to the other side of the dry spot, it opened up into a wider path, paved with a few stones, cutting through a field of short grass, at least two inches taller than Toroyahk himself. The path was long, but it had to lead somewhere. chii
