He stopped and looked behind him but there was nothing to be seen.

Martin quickened his pace, but it only served to make more rustling and cause more cracking, which made him all the more nervous. He could just see over the top of the shrubs that were looking more and more sinewy as the sun's angle sharpened. But, he couldn't eliminate from his mind the thought that he was being followed by one, or perhaps several clawed, toothy creatures.

Martin began to stumble and felt something fall from his pack. It doesn't matter, he thought. Probably just a bit of old cloth. By now, he was jogging and his entire pack was rattling and clanking with each step. Sweat stung his eyes and he tried to wipe them as he ran. Blinded and deaf from the sound of his own huffing, he tripped on a knotty root and crashed, face-first, to the ground. He could taste the sandy dirt in his mouth and feel the dust in his nose and lungs.

He waited for the swarm of bramble-dragons to descend on him. Slowly, a shadow spread above him.

"Martin! What happened?"

Martin managed to open his eyes to see feet wrapped in what looked like coarse leather sacks. He looked up.

"Lilith?" he asked as he stared at a silhouette haloed by sun.

"Martin. I told you we must keep together. Why were you running? You're pack's nearly burst."

"I. Uh. I thought I heard something."

"Out here? There's nothing out here. Maybe a few abandoned birds' nests."

"I heard a child at the mill talking, though. About bramble-dragons."

"You don't believe in those, do you Martin?"

"Well, I didn't, at least, not until I was alone out here."

"You're not along, Martin. But you must stay with me. There are things out here that should not be faced alone."

Lilith helped Martin rise to his feet, and led him as they continued on.

Grumpus: I am so wasting these guys.

Penut: Take it easy, Grumps! We don't know their alignment, yet. They could be on our side...

Grumpus: Shut up, peanut. Kill! [I charge the bastards]

Penut: That's Pe-nut, like Pele. And I'm not doing anything. [I look around to see if I can find any identifying marks on their tunics]

Rom: I'm with Grumps. Murder! Rage! [I'll go for the one with the limp...]

DM: Okay. Everyone roll initiative...

This particular stretch of "seaside" real estate lay along the route between Red Bridge which crossed the canal to Paul's right and Shipwrights Dock to Paul's left. There had never been a shipyard nearby, so the dock's name was a mystery, but names are often more aspiration than truth.

Paul tried to appear aloof and unexpectant.

A figure in a short black jacket rounded the curve off bridge and started towards Paul. A little urgent in his gate, thought Paul. It could be him.

Paul noticed piercings, stretched earlobes, tattoos.

False alarm.

Munsky was the name of his target according to the file. Munsky ran a pawn shop and was rumored to deal in stolen motorbikes, but it was always hard to tell whether that was a minor infraction or if t was just the tip of the iceberg. Munsky was skinny and young looking, Paul remembered from the photographs. He didn't look the part at all. Maybe he'd inherited the business from his old man. The file didn't say. Anyways, looks could be deceiving.

A slow middle-aged couple meandered nearby. They spoke only in low whispers. Paul couldn't make out a single word of their conversation. Their presence made him nervous, despite their clear lack of interest in Paul. They didn't fit in with his vision of the day, tracking the elusive Munsky. They seemed quite decidedly unmysterious.

It was Paul's first gig. He'd begged and begged for an assignment from Bob Kropf for the better part of a year. Paul didn't know a thing about being an investigator, he admitted, and Kropf was worried he'd manage to get knocked around or worse his first day on the job. Not that Kropf was all that concerned about Paul. He just didn't want to deal with the liability.

Just then, the door to the Whining Red Dragon swings abreast. A man peeks through the doorway and shouts, "The goblins are here!"

Alone now, he realized that Garyth was probably less worried about Martin's pace, and more concerned about attracting undesirable attention. He had yet to encounter the bands of thieves, greedy lawmen, and swindling townsfolk that he'd heard tales of.

Martin resolved to shed the goods at the soonest practical moment, even at a steep discount.

He sat for a moment on a rock alongside the trail to rest his back and shoulders.  From within his pockets he produced a block of dried meat and sliced small portions.  As he chewed through the tough flavorful chip, he reflected that the journey was already quite different than he'd expected.  Outside of the town, the pace of life was more self-directed than he'd anticipated.  The traveling clan had to create their own routine for meals, rest, and sleep to balance the monotonous progressions across the near un-changing landscape.  Just as the birds and squirrels and other creatures constantly busied themselves with the straightforward business of gathering provisions, Martin focused primarily on maintaining a steady, comfortable, but productive gait down the road.

Martin hoisted the pack on his shoulders and continued down the trail towards his traveling companions.

Garyth turned to survey his charge but could not see Martin. The spindly yeoman had been straggling, burdened by an overstuffed pack, but had plodded on with determination. Twice Lilith had stopped and waited for him to catch up, but both times he upbraided her and told her to keep her pace - that he would be just fine.

"Martin!" called Garyth.

The rest of the group stopped and peered through the high brush, which became impenetrable to sight after about 20 yards. There was no answer.

"Martin!" called Lilith, whose brow began to furrow with worry.

The group waited, listening for a moment.  Vance turned and continued walking.

"Vance!  Wait!  We have to get Martin," said Garyth.

"He'll catch up when we stop to eat," said Vance, without slowing.

Lilith tread back the way they had come in search of Martin while Hilgard and Garyth stood, uncertain and unsettled between their two, receding companions.  Garyth broke first, and headed back with Lilith while Hilgard caught up with Vance.  As the two groups diverged, the clouds slowly grew closer and the edges of the sky began to darken.

“We'll have to set up camp to shelter from the storm,” said Hilgard. Vance plodded forward, and Hilgard couldn't be sure whether he'd heard.

After a long while, Vance spoke, “I had hoped we'd make it further towards the foothills, and we'd be able to brace ourselves more comfortably where the path starts to wind. Out here, we're exposed and we'll face the full force of the storm, if one comes.”

Vance sighed, “We shouldn't have brought him.”

Now, Hilgard kept silent as they continued to walk. An intermittent and somewhat anemic stream appeared alongside the road. It flowed slowly but persistently forward along their path towards the hills ahead. It crossed their path occasionally, and it disappeared below ground from time to time, only to resurface as the same slow trickle as before. We must be descending at an extremely slight grade, thought Vance. The bracken plain must be covered with micro-tributaries that all unite among the valleys below. Perhaps this one will lead to the mountain pass.

We are at the Dairy Queen in Michigan City. And we are all damn excited.

Scoping out the items on the menu, my mother and sister converse frustratingly about the lack of their favorite treat, a Mud Pie Blizzard. They are frantically trying to remember the ingredients: chocolate, coffee, oreo cookies…

I know I will be content with my old standby: Snickers and Butter Fingers. I begin thinking about it and a smile crosses my face.

It is soon wiped clean once I survey the general look of the place. I can’t help noticing as I wait in line the abject foulness with which this place has been managed. There are seven people behind the counter in disgusting-looking outfits covered in all manner of ice cream and goo, dipping their ungloved hands in and out of containers, wiping their noses on their sleeves, talking with spit-droplets sliding off their lips…

I come close to gagging when my ice cream savant wipes down my medium blizzard with a nastified towel, making sure to dip down into the cup to get a sketchy piece of something out of the top. As I avert my eyes to avoid projecting all over the register, my wife returns from the bathroom with a terrified look on her face. “Don’t use the bathroom,” she says to no one in particular, snatching up her blizzard and following me outside.

We sit outside on a round bench and eat our selections: I have the old Butterfinger and Snickers, the wife has Caramel and Reese’s, my niece clutches her circular chocolate monolith in both hands, and my mother and sister both with something approximating the mud pie they were familiar with in Chicago. Dad (as usual) with nothing, but willing to sample if anyone is interested.

I try to be subtle as my sister (sour face, slowly turning green) slides the strange-looking object my way for careful examination. I tell her it is a piece of fruit. I even smell it to allay her fears (I might have ate it too had this not done the trick). She stares deep into her medium-sized cup and then resumes her cautious eating of its contents.

On the way to the car, my father ahead, slipping into the driver seat, niece in my arms, chocolate-something-or-other all over her face, mother, wife, and sister trailing behind, I spot the offending splash of vomit on the pavement next to the car.

My sister nearly loses it before dragging me back and demanding my father pull the car around before she will get in. I say nothing to my niece, but as I place her in the car the near-three year-old says quietly: “Who threw up? Is he okay?”

My sister taps me on the shoulder as I get into the car. “There was a tampon in my ice cream.”

“Jah-?” I say, pretending not to understand her, and reminding myself not to tell her of my suspicion that the mysterious “fruit” from her cup was actually, indeed, a booger.