Some hours later and far away to the West, across the Middle Sea, in the kingdom of Freeland, a man camped upon the boarders of a black bog named Miremurk. The shadowed outline of the bog’s thick tangled trees loomed over the man and his campsite like the raised hackles of some enormous beast.

He sat gazing into his own small campfire, and its flickering light glinted in his dark-blue eyes as he sat absorbed in thought. He was past exhaustion, but when he tried to sleep, he could only see the faces of his family contorted with fear or pain or perhaps even both. Normally, his imagination was his strength, but within his current predicament, he found it to be a terrible liability.

The man felt as though his troubles were completely overwhelming him, and for this reason, his thick brown eyebrows seemed frozen in a foreboding scowl.

He was in his mid-thirties, and there were more than a few strands of gray hair around his small ears betraying his age. A short beard covered his face, and the sandy-brown hair of his head hung down to the middle of his back in way-worn tangles.

Upon his head, he wore a rainbow-colored hat. It looked much like those worn by wizards except that its point had been taken away and replaced by a flat top. A word was embroidered across the front of his brilliantly colored hat in black ornately drawn Rivenian letter. It spelled out, “Curesoon.”

This was his name, and he was quite fond of it, for he saw it as both his identity and as a promise made to him long before he was even born.

The rest of Curesoon’s attire was common enough. He wore a pale-blue tunic and thick-threaded, maroon trousers. Over the trousers, he was clad in leather leggings that came up to the middle of his thighs. From his knees to his ankles, he was also protected by a pair of steel greaves, and the common sandals of Freeland were strapped upon his feet. Draped over his shoulders, he wore what looked like a black cloak in the half-light of the early dawn. However, it was actually dark- blue in color, and its richly textured cloth matched wholly with his somber expression.

Curesoon had been away from his home for close to six months, and a gloomy mood hung about him like clouds of thick black smoke. He seemed to be a miserable person, and the direct cause of his misery was the very thing for which he so diligently sought.

Unconsciously he twisted a golden ring round his finger as he thought of her. It was made after the fashion of the Barbarian peoples being wrought of yellow gold with a braided band of white gold around its middle. The ring was his wedding band and had been given to him by his wife. Besides it, he wore no other jewelry upon his person.

As Curesoon gazed at the back of his hand and the ring that embraced his finger, a new memory abruptly crowded its way into his mind. Within his brooding thoughts, he could see his slightly tanner hand contrasted against his wife’s fair-skin as he caressed her smooth shapely back. Though he was not extremely dark, he was browner than her, for she was born of the northern Barbarian race.

The thought of his wife seemed to force his eyes to peer into the darkness of the bog that lay just beyond his campsite. As Curesoon stared into the darker shadows of its trees, a feeling of dread crept within his heart. It was indeed the darkest place in all of Freeland.

“Would she have really gone into that evil place?” he whispered to himself.

He was still eyeing the swamp when a sudden sound caused him to jump. As his hand instinctively went to the hilt of his father’s sword, he stood and spun around in one fluid movement to see who or what was upon him.

“Pardon, sir! I… I did not intend to startle you.” A young man quickly stammered seeing that Curesoon’s had grabbed for his weapon.

“Where’d you come from?” Curesoon asked with an irritated tone in his voice. He was trying to hide the fearful look that had been so clearly expressed upon his face.

The stranger took off his straw hat and scratched the thick mat of reddish curls that had been hidden beneath. He seemed to be searching for just the right words.

After a moment, he slowly answered, “Well, again, beggin’ your pardon, sir, but I come at my wife’s insistence. She’s sore vexed over the fact that a vagabond has made camp on our land. She’s away there now watching to make certain I dismiss you right proper.” He gestured to a place back over his shoulder.

Curesoon leaned back to look around the farmer, and, sure enough, there was a small farmhouse just behind the young man. It was a quaint little cottage with a barn and a short stone wall set around them both. A wisp of smoke wafted up from the house’s chimney which poked up out of the center of its round straw-thatched roof.

The door of the cottage stood open, and the silhouette of a plump young woman was set against the glow of the hearth from within the house. The woman stood with her hands placed impatiently upon her round hips.

Curesoon straightened and looked at the young farmer with raised eyebrows while trying not to smile at the man’s obvious dilemma.

“Ah, now I see your mission quite clearly.” he said with a slightly humorous tone, but as he added his next words, he became more sincere. “Please, forgive my trespass. I made camp long after dusk and did not see your house, nor did I know that anyone owned this land.”

“Well then, no harm done, sir.” The red-headed man remarked stiffly while nervously rubbing his freckled cheek with the back of his hand.

There was a minute of awkward silence, and in that moment, the farmer took note that the other man’s hand still rested upon the hilt of his sword.

“That… That’s a fine blade you have.” The younger man stammered timidly. He could clearly see that the weapon was expensively made, and it began to occur to the fretful farmer that this man might be someone of significance.

Curesoon unsheathed the sword and held it out. “It belongs to my father’s house. In fact, it was given to my grandfather by good king Candor himself.” Curesoon explained. “My grandfather named it ‘Fortuity.’”

The weapon was indeed richly crafted. Its pommel was sculpted to look like a golden shamrock, and both tips of its cross-guard were decorated with smaller golden three-leaf clovers. The hilt was covered in a rich blue felt over which golden wire was twisted. Just beyond the hilt, a golden chevron was inlaid upon each side of its blade, and above the chevrons, nearer to the hilt, two words were inscribed in gold: “Ever Troth.”

The farmer’s hazel eyes shifted to the man’s shield which leaned against the same log upon which he had been seated. The shield was emblazoned with three golden shamrocks and a golden chevron.

The fact that the traveler's shield and sword matched made the red-headed man feel ill. The odds were slim to none that a mere vagabond would own a matching set of weapons.

“May I ask, sir, to what… To what house you belong?” The young man asked haltingly.

 “I am Curesoon, son of Acumen, the Lord of Eagle’s Peak.” The way-worn traveler replied while removing his hat and tilting his head toward the other man.

By this declaration, the young farmer was now sure that this was the son of a nobleman, and he was beginning to regret ever coming out of his house. Hoping to seem a little more friendly, he decided to introduce himself.

“My… My name is… Huh… Guileless… Guileless the son of ol’ Chaffer. He… He’s a freeman and a farmer also. He lives away there in the neighboring meadow, and it was he that gave me this parcel as a wedding present so my new wife and I would have a home. You, huh… You see we were just married a month ago, and we mean to raise a family in this small glen.”

Guileless had a habit of speaking rapidly and telling all he knew when he was unnerved. He continued, “I’ve always loved this plot of land even back when I was but knee high to a Gnome. There’s the river for swimming and the old oaks for climbing. It’s the closest thing to paradise so far as a boy can tell. I’d say it’s perfect if it weren’t for that awful bog being such an eye sore, and what’s more, a terrible offence to the nose. But then, we only smell the reek when the wind blows wrong.”

“Well met, Farmer Guileless, son of Chaffer!” Curesoon smiled and reached out a hand.

Guileless glanced at the other man’s hand without understanding. Though Freeland was, by definition, more free, it was still uncommon for a lord or lordling to shake the hand of a peasant or even a freeman. Seeing his confusion, Curesoon laughed, took his hand, and then shook it firmly.

In response, the young farmer smiled nervously. He was sure his own hand felt like a limp fish.

Guileless had not liked confronting the stranger when he thought he was just a simple vagabond, but now that he knew he was the son of a lord, he was quite beside himself. “Well… Well met, my… My lord!

There was another moment of awkward silence, and then Curesoon cleared his throat. “So, you don’t much like our black bog, huh?”

The farmer shook his head without speaking for the first time.

“Well,” Curesoon sighed. “It just so happens that’s exactly where I’m headed.” He shot a darkened glance at the foul forest.”

Guileless shuddered. “Sir, your business is your own, but if I were you, I wouldn’t dare to go into that evil place.”

“I have little choice.” The traveler replied gloomily. “I’m searching for my wife, and in all of Freeland, this is the one place where I haven’t looked. She is of the Barbarian race, and above all else, they value valor in war and high adventure. It may very well be that she has entered that vile swamp seeking both.”

“How is it that you came to be married to a Barbarian?” The young farmer pondered allowed without thinking of how the question sounded. Upon hearing his own words, he was immediately sorry. “I… I… I meant no dis… Disrespect.”