The train gave a high whistle and belched a cloud of grey smoke from its smokestack, the sharp grinding of steel bringing the engine to a graceful stop. A few seconds elapsed as jets of steam burst and then wafted down the intent of the train, filling the platform and momentarily blinding the travelers waiting there. Then all at once the cabin doors opened and the travelers' traded places.
I can appreciate the rhythmic life of a train. Everything is at the mercy of the conductor's gold pocket watch as he consults the little hands as the wind around the face, marking the delays, the stops and the end of the line. It is a journey, progression of stops all dictated by a predisposed path which never alters until you reach your particular destination and step off. Some philosophers and poets have wrongly likened the whole of life to one long track in which everyone gets off at their fateful destination. One quickly realizes just how easily it all falls apart. It's a romantic notion. Life is Time. And it will all run into the ground at some point, and everyone will have either stepped off long ago or run right over the edge with it. There is also a magnificent explosion.
As I was saying, I do so appreciate the punctuality of the railroad. Time is a slave to none and a master of all. My business is all about time and I am no sluggard for it to pass any quicker or run any slower. Time always runs out in the end. And that is one of the few wonderful things we can be sure of in life. The train will always come.
Our expedition of fellows deboarded the train, spilling out with the rest of the travelers. Their bags and gear followed in abundance. The Ravenmere station, and town for that matter, was located some 50 miles from the boarder of the Greenwood and was one of the last stops between Knifewatch on the Northeast boarder and Redsmith in the Northwest. This made Ravenmere one of the key stations along the route for anyone traveling across the High Moors. Everything passed through here, making it one of the fastest growing cities. Located in a wide valley of green hills and fertile ground, the whole town had grown organically, spreading out in a fashion that built itself around the railroad and out. Despite being a center of commerce and trade, it still had a very rural feel to it. The primary residents were country folk, farmers and ranchers. There were traders, merchants and growing industries. But somehow it maintained a languid and casual air of a hamlet. The roads were broad, recently cobbled, the buildings only a few stories tall and spread out with corpse of trees dotting the lanes and neighborhoods.
Arthur had set off immediately to hire carts to carry them into the open country. The ladies mingled, making small talk and observing the proceedings. Mayflower and Thomas were overseeing the organization of the servants and gear into the cart. Dr Psmith lingered in the background watching and keeping his lips closed. Telmage commenting on the dryness of his throat from too much travel and went in search of liquid rejuvenation. The ladies browsed among the shops and stands selling common wares and traveling goods. Thomas purchased a pamphlet titled "Survival: The Wilds of High Moor" written by an adventurer and physician who had spent the better part of his life exploring, treating animals and humanoids, and compiling his knowledge and experiences into a series of books. The publishers were doubtful such a dry, encyclopedic work would sell to the general populace. They encouraged him to compose a short work to test the markets. They publishers were, of course correct in their professional assumptions, much to the disappointment of its author.
Lindion, for her efforts, was rewarded with finding a sturdy hand-stitched ruck sack to sling over her shoulders during their various adventures.
Mayflower, having organized the servants and goods, was getting the rest of the equipment loaded when Father Collins moseyed over to talk with him and Thomas. He stifled a yawn and greeted the two men. Thomas was of course very reluctant to see Father Collins again so soon. The common greetings were terse for his part, but Father Collins was used to both welcoming gestures and lurid ones. They might have talked further, if Mayflower had not launched into a lecture on the benefits of the "buddy system" and then continued on the woes of "Toorakish prisons." *
As everyone joined for the evening meal, stories of past hunts, adventures and monsters naturally came up. Lindion was asked if this was her first safari, and she told them that she had been on several with her fiancé, but that was long ago. Mayflower was surprisingly empathetic, before regaling the group with a tale of the Wobberjacky; a mythical creature who lures its prey into danger with the use of mimicry.
Eventually everyone settled into sleep for the night. Everyone that is, except Father Collins. He was a creature of the night and was enjoying the first book when he heard a unusual sound. He peaked out of his tent and listened. He heard the horses moving nervously and saw the shape of a man in the dark. Father Collins attempted to move quietly, but Thomas heard him and also went to investigate, shielding his lantern with a rag. Father Collins saw nothing out of the ordinary, other than some spooked horses. He turned and noticed Thomas hastily backpedaling into the cover of some bundles. Whispering the words of an incantation, Father Collins cast Lumen, an orb of bright energy illuminating everything in the near vicinity. Thomas had recovered as Father Collins approached him. Thomas was of course suspicious of why this priest was nosing around outside, but he agreed to take a look near the horses. He noticed one of the leads was untied, but there was no way to know if someone had done it or it had come undone on its own. Thomas and Father Collins decide to camp out and watch through the night in case their prowler returned. Taking provisions, they huddled down in a clump of grass.
When Thomas awoke, the sun was just cresting the far ridge. Father Collins was alert and chipper as ever. The walked back to the camp in search of coffee. They settle in the mess, as food and drink are being prepared. As they waited, one of the servants rushed out of the supply tent exclaiming that something had been stolen.
*This is a common expression among those who have traveled abroad in the Emerites and the Southern Alliance in the far South. Toorakish Prisons are notorious as they are comedic. Toorak is a nomadic people who tower over the rest of their kin. Rumored to have giant's blood, they are fearsome, not very intelligent and have a skill in organization and administration. The prisons themselves are almost a joke considering some of the greatest prison escapes have been made from their jails.
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