When he saw the split between the trees Orlon felt a chill stiffen his muscles, goose pimples sprout all over his flesh. To see for the first time an opening into and out of Dark Forest… And to think just moments ago he had started to question the truth of the forest’s evil outreach, taking into account its presumed impenetrable "wall" of trees. Now he understood why travelers stuck to the opposite side of the road, and yet looking within he saw no looming evil seeking to escape the forest’s dark confines. All he saw was a path that disappeared into that darkness.
A final wild spin turned the Parson back to him, staff bobbing just inches from his round, friendly face. "The choice," he stated flatly, "is yours."
Orlon gulped. He looked down the road. It was a nice, sunny day and to travel that way looked quite inviting. He looked down the path. It appeared to be clear and open, fading into the darkness as any path would through dense tree cover. What Ty the Parson harped as most important in his decision pressed on his mind: time. The road would take time, the path less time. But the path went through the proclaimed evil forest. He gulped again. Which should he choose?
"I know the decision is yours, purest of the pure," Tarl whispered in his ear, "but if I were you, I’d choose the road. You know what awaits us if we enter that…forest, buddy. Trouble, that’s what. Nothing…but…trouble."
"If it was up to me," Grash sniffed, twisting an end of his mustache, "I would choose the path."
"Aye, the shorter the better," Marcol said.
"Funny," Richtichtiare said, "that sounds like something you’d tell your girlfriend."
With a sigh, Orlon glanced down the road before taking a closer look at the path. While it had looked clear and open at a cursory look, a closer look revealed something that sent the goose-pimply chill revisiting his flesh. Rows of thorn bushes, their limbs bent and twisted and dangerous looking, lined both sides of it. They made that direction look uninviting. Still, he could see if they stayed true to the path the thorny branches, none of which obstructed it, could be avoided.
"I choose…" he said absentmindedly.
His eyes bore more deeply into the forest’s depths, only to be thwarted by its darkness. He cocked an ear in hopes of hearing any sound from within it. And he heard—nothing. No sinister laughter from unseen demons, no snarls of salivating carnivores, no caws of flesh eating birds, no hiss of poisonous reptiles… Yet he did not find this discovery calming. To him the silence was far more terrifying in its uncertainty than any sound he might have heard.
"I choose…" he repeated just as absentmindedly.
Into his mind appeared the Party, warriors to a man, and woman, armed and sworn to protect him on this quest. The image wavered, grew unfocused and in its place, a tall, shapely and beautiful woman with long, wavy blonde-brown hair. The saber at her hip reassured him she meant what she proclaimed about being his guardian. A sense of security nearly calmed his nerves, as one concern remained. Would protection of him include Tarl and Jujay’s safety? Surely it would. He hoped.
"I choose," he brought his eyes to an expectantly waiting Ty the Parson, "the path."
Tarl gave him a double-take. "You wha—?" he gasped.
"It’s the shorter way," he said with a shrug. "And we are pressed for time, Tarl."
Tarl’s jaw went slack, and he looked his best friend up and down. There was no denying he had begun to think this trip just might be a quest himself, but Orlon had obviously bought into it fully. His jaw snapped shut with the realization Orlon used Ty the Parson’s urge for hurrying on him as he had used it in reverse about breakfast. But it was different! While Orlon used it to cover for a choice that would lead them into grave danger, the worst result of his covering for eating his best friend’s breakfast would be Orlon getting really hungry.
"The flipped coin is called! Our direction is chosen. The shorter it will be. Time will be saved to ensure the success of our quest." Ty the Parson grew still but for his eyes which took in all present with a wild sweep left to right, right to left. A leap straight up led him to a limb flailing escapade, saying, "The clock’s hands point skyward in unison! It is midday. The bell is rung to call in the farmhands! We will pause here for lunch."
Orlon looked to the sun to find it was midday—and realized just how empty his stomach was.
The Party moved into the field to prepare for mealtime, which included stripping Jujay of his burden supply bundle by supply bundle. The servant was thankful for this, his hunched stature becoming less per bundle removed until he stood hunched normally. Still, he continued to lean heavily on his walking staff, the exertion of carrying all those supplies having worn him out.
His master was relieved to see this happen for him, as well as concerned over his tired look. He gave him a reassuring smile, wanting to go speak with him, but when Sharna returned with her bundle she turned him around and guided him into the field. He looked back at Jujay, shrugged.
"The path," Tarl muttered to himself, following them. "I can’t believe he chose the path."
Sharna led him through the dispersing members of the Party to a hefty bush ten feet from the road. They took a seat before it, she laying her bundle next to herself. Tarl stood nearby, eyes on the ground, shaking his head at Orlon’s decision. All around them the Party, but for two, settled down in a haphazard semicircle.
"I hope Roxx fixes a tasty lunch," Sharna said.
"Lunch," Tarl said, looking up—and raised a finger in the air, adding, "I packed for that."
With that, he weaved his way through the Party and hurried on to Jujay, who had found a place to rest on the field’s edge not far from where he stood in the road. Tarl snatched the carryall from around his neck without acknowledging him at all and headed back. The servant did not appreciate his rudeness, but was thankful to have the last bit of his burden removed.
"I’m glad I thought of this," Tarl said, flopping down before them and unstrapping the bags' flaps.
"You’re not the only one who thought of it," Orlon pointed.
Following his pointing finger, Tarl espied a plump man with push cart he had not noticed before. He watched him, with the assistance of the stuttering newcomer, set up a cooking pot over a pile of logs in a circle of rocks. While the stutterer lit the logs, the man moved to the cart and pulled a hat from a drawer, popped it on his head. The head gear, white like the man’s clothing, reminded him of a chimney emitting a puff of smoke. He blinked. The man was a chef.
His attention was drawn to the way the two talked—the patience the chef had with his friend’s speech impediment. Friends did not fit them. It was obvious they were best friends… He thought of his own best friend, his quick thinking to pack a simple lunch, and how silly, in comparison to a chef’s meal, that looked now.
"Well, it seemed like a good idea," he said, crestfallen.
"Yes," Orlon piped up, not liking his best friend’s disappointment and getting an urging from his empty stomach, "yes, it was a good idea."
Tarl looked up, downturned lips trembling. "You think?" he said.
"Sure," Orlon said, wiping his moist lips. "I mean, how were you to know the Party would include a cook. How were you to know just how big a Party it would be? You didn’t pack enough for everyone, but I’m sure with a cook preparing them a tasty meal they won’t mind if we indulge. We—" he flinched with a stomach spasm "—we can use your lunch—Cheese sandwiches, wasn’t it?—as an appetizer.