Alone in the swamps, with the violent uncompromising death of their young guide still flashing in their eyes, the darkness is all encompassing.
Ser Lothryn halts and motions the others on. He whispers quickly his plan - he will lead the enemy off their trail while they go on ahead. He lights a torch, lucky to have the flame take in the damp, and runs off in a different direction. Laria, Ser Fossett and Lady Iah seem to be, as the saying goes, between a rock and a hard place - death by swamp or death by enemy sword? They run on into the night.
Elsewhere in Restenford, Myrtle has arrived at the home of Lady Nina in Oakenfield. She finds her a very meek young girl, very bookish, though not unattractive. Myrtle notes to herself the young lady has some growing to do in face and in spirit as she is quite under the heel of men. Nina does not react well to being told she needs to marry, three days after her father has died, but she is shrewd and understands her home will need protected in his absence. Her grandfather Ser Frederick placates his granddaughter with the suggestion of a tournament come the spring. He feels it would be an excellent introduction to her suitors, and quietly thinks it will give her some time to grieve before the world of adulthood takes over. Myrtle nods understandably and agrees she will advise Lady Iah of the event.
Back in the wilds they eventually find themselves at a small muddy hillock just above the water. The night is overcast and the marsh leans in with an oppressive wetness. They whisper in hushed breathless tones to one another, trying to decide what would be best. Staying put until first light seems to be the better conclusion as this may aid travel through the marsh and allow them to possibly gain their bearings again.
The night winks by slowly. Every splash of water, every snapped twig or slap of bird wing startles. The ground around them sucks and bubbles. No sign is seen of Ser Lothryn. False dawn creeps in, a watery light in a grey sky, over a dripping wet landscape washed by drizzle. Fossett divines which way should be north and they begin walking. Trudging through the mud. They have never felt so cold or stiff.
It is hardly an hour before more troubles befall them. Picking her way round a deep puddle, Iah steps through what looked like solid ground and disappears into the dark. Laria cries out in shock and the knight moves her aside and dives in. Eventually their lady is saved, almost drowned in the process, but in the end no worse than very cold, wet and drained.
The bog looks bleak. Mist is lifting to the east to roll in and so far they have not recognised anything they have passed. Laria, much experienced from her childhood spent outdoors, speaks with Ser Fossett and they come to a mutual agreement that possibly traveling closer to the camp, but maintaining a safe distance, may be a better way to retrace their steps. The young swordswoman releases her quarterstaff and uses it to check the marshy ground as each holds on to a length of rope for added security. It does not seem long before they reach the outskirts of the camp, shorter than they think it should have been considering how long it took to leave, but then this is a strange place and time and distance do not seem of the same ilk of that of the outside world.
By now Lady Iah has become almost delirious from the bone chilling cold of her wet clothes and the shock of her brush with death. They decide that it may be better to hole up for a while to make her more comfortable lest she die of the shakes before they are ever able to leave.
