It's a spring day in the Westlands - gray rags of cloud sweep across the sky, spitting down brief bursts of rain and sleet, interspersed with warming shafts of watery sunlight. Skogenby is this morning's memory - goodbyes, caudled ale, a last breakfast sitting on a bench by a hearth in the Cloven Stump's common room. You forded the White Horse River just north of Skogenby and traipsed up the Old Skogenby Road into woodcutter country. After the ford, the road was no longer graveled or dragged - after an hour of walking, the road's two ruts merged into one. Now, after your midday break, the road is reduced to a brambly game trail leading uncertainly northwest. You haven't seen a person since the mid-morning, a charcoal-burner and his apprentice gawking at the three of you from atop their stack of timber-baulks. You have a map - sort of - consisting of a blot representing Skogenby, a line scrawled to indicate the road, a couple Xs for landmarks, and a circle where Traveler's Hill is supposed to be. Gavan the smith's apprentice produced this document for you, based on what he'd overheard from Osbjörn Smith talking to the crazy old peasant who brought in the ship-fitting.
The alders and osiers around nod in the breeze, green swelling at the tips of their branches. Somewhere nearby a wood-thrush essays a tentative whistle. The sun's slipping down the western sky - you've five, maybe six hours until dark and your "road" has more or less disappeared.
What do you do?