You are about the ask the hunter if you can come with him, but then you decide not to bother him but instead to follow him. You keep a great distance behind him. You keep so far back, you can barely see him. He probably knows you're there. If he's a skilled hunter, he would know if a boy was following him. If he does know, he gives no indication. He's walking north. You follow him for some time. You leave the valley and enter the Carpathian Mountains. The terrain becomes more rugged. Trees become more numerous until you're surrounded by forest. You can smell the pine, and it becomes noticeably cooler, because of the shade, elevation, and lateness of the day. Shafts of light filter through the trees and leave a speckled mosaic on the carpet of needles. You can't enjoy it because your feet ache, and the straps of your backpack dig into your shoulders. You long to take a break but you don't want to lose sight of the hunter. You've been walking for several hours, and you're so tired, you decide that you have to stop and rest even it means you lose sight of him. Then all of a sudden, you turn a corner, and see a small village nestled in the mountains. You see the hunter head towards it. With renewed energy, you head towards it also.

The cottages are half-timbered and thatched with a blue grass you're not familiar with. Most of the houses are two-story and tightly bunched together. Initially the roads are dirt, but as you get deeper into the village, they give way to cobblestone. There are some shingles hanging in front of some of the buildings but the writing is in a language you don't recognize. Some children are playing a ball game in the street. When they see you, they run away, and the ball rolls to your feet. You can feel eyes peering at you through the cracks in shuttered windows. I guess they don't get many strangers here. In the distance you catch a glimpse of the silhouette of a castle.

You reach the well in the center of town. Off in the distance, you can hear a faint rhythmic tinging sound. You head towards it without even thinking. During the depth of winter when it's bitterly cold, the warmest place in any village is the blacksmith shop. Therefore, people congregate at the blacksmith's to keep warm. It becomes an informal meeting place. Therefore, even during the summer, it is the traditional place for locals to socialize and gossip. You don't think about it of course, since you've known this since you were little. Therefore, when you hear the tinging sound, which you recognize as the blacksmith's hammer, you automatically walk towards it without even thinking.

You might have thought twice if you had seen the blacksmith. You can smell him before you see the man himself. The sight of him does not do the man justice. He's a sweaty splotch of a man. His face is redder than a Nubidian gnome. He's 25 lotas tall, and weighs 175 kergan (5'2" and 230 lbs.). He perspires half his body weight a day but this doesn't do much to reduce his weight since most of it drips into his broth so he just takes it back in again in a form of auto-cannibalism. He also has the unique ability to fart in reverse and thereby suck things up into his anus. Sometimes after dinner, he would entertain guests by sucking up coins and other small objects provided by the audience. He also sold candles made from his own ear wax.

You feel the heat from the forge when you first enter the blacksmith's shop. The blacksmith is pounding away at a pair of red hot horseshoes. On the other side of the room, a group of men are standing and sitting around a keg of ale. They stop talking and stare at you as you enter.

"…um…can you tell me what village this is?"

"Aye, if ah ada mind tuh! Whose askin?!" snorted the blacksmith who somehow heard you over the din.

"I'm John from Yavin. I'm just passing through."

"Weh keep on passin! Now git!"

"This is Daventry" said a merchant with a forked beard.

"Dithuh constable senja t'spy on me?!" shouted the blacksmith.

"No sir."

"Mah woman?! Damn witch!"

"No sir, nobody sent me."

"So what's your business in Daventry?" asked the merchant.

"I'm looking for the Sword of Zameron."

"Never heard of it."

"Who rules this village?"

"We're ruled by the king. His castle is just north of here."

"Oh…perhaps I should see him then…"

"I wouldn't suggest it. If you have a good head on your shoulders, you'll want to keep it there."

"What's the king's name?"

"King Nesfaratu" said the merchant.

You take off your backpack and sit on a stool. You fill a mug of ale and take a sip. It's not that bad. You pick out a few of the dead bugs.

"Do you know the hunter?"

"Aye, goes fowling every morn."

These aren't very talkative men, and the idle chit chat is just about local gossip and similar nonsense.

"Do you know a place I can spend the night?"

"Nowt like strangers 'ere, lad. Best be movin' on."

You stay and rest awhile. You watch the blacksmith cough a piece of flem into the fire where it crackles and pops like bacon. You wonder if maybe you should go see the king, and see if he knows anything about the Sword. If nothing else, you could stay the night, and get more supplies.