Towards the column of smoke

You do not trust the “goodwill” of the portal that brought you here. You cannot trust the path. Either direction on the road could lead to danger, but anyone who knew about the portal would expect you to take the road. You make up your mind. You step off the path completely and start to make your way through the forest towards the pillar of smoke.

Where are Alice and Crawford? You know that all three of you went through the same portal. If the portal dropped you here, it could have separated you. You must not trust it, you could be in danger. You refrain from calling for your companion.

You are seething in anger. You remember Crawford’s cowardly first reaction — flee. That rat! Nothing can be done about his craven attitude now. You press onward, towards the grey plume.

Where you came through the portal, the smoke was clearly visible; once you leave the trail in order to pursue it, the smoke becomes elusive. You look through the canopy, and, here and there, you catch a glimpse of smoke and correct your path, but just as often you look into the treetops in what you think is the right direction, and there is only sky.

You never were the best at orienteering, and with no map and few landmarks you begin to second guess your decision to leave the path.

Each time your eyes catch a glimpse of the pillar of smoke, however, it is closer. You are making progress. After reassuring yourself, you dismiss your momentary panic, that dreadful feeling of being turned around in the woods, and you trudge forth.

As you walk, you start to take a closer look at this strange forest. The ferns on the ground create a green ocean that you wade through, the gentle brush of leaves on your armor make rhythmic scratch. Tree trunks of every width fill your vision, but the forest is not too difficult to walk through. Few vines clutter the trunks, and you’ve yet to encounter any brambles. The bark of the trees stand out, a kaleidoscope of color in the midmorning sun. The dull ashen grey of familiar birch trees standing out against the rich sepia of the pines. Here and there are trees that you don’t recognize, but isn’t that to be expected? You have no idea how far the portal has taken you.

The acrid smell of smoke tells you that you’re close. You slow down, trying to be careful in case the smoke signals some sort of danger. However, you are wearing all of your gear. The clattering of your armor prevents you from making any sort of quiet approach.

You crunch and you bang your way, therefore, through the forest. The landscape rolls and dips in the picturesque gullies and ravines. The smoke you have been trailing stays clearly in view now, but you cannot see its source. You feel it is around the next turn, or over the next hell; then, you go around the corner or up the hill, and it is not there, but remains further on.

Eventually, you turn the right corner, and you can see a campfire, immodest in its proportions, concealed within an alcove formed by overhanging rocks. Fresh, green leaves cover the surface of the fire— clearly someone is creating the smoke intentionally. This fire’s only purpose is to make smoke.

You don’t see anyone around, but the fire is fresh. Someone has been tending it. Maybe they are out now, gathering more leaves; maybe they are here, watching you.