The next day Roker woke up, aching all over. It was raining hard and the ground he was lying on was getting damp from a downhill trickle. He got up and shook himself dry, wincing as his torn ear stung. His shoulder was also caked in black, dried blood. He gathered up the crossbow, only three bolts remaining, and the short sword. He stepped out into the woods cautiously and listened for a long while before he started to push through the dripping foliage.

“Where… am I?” he muttered looking around at the trees. The woods of home were all conifers, mostly massive pines and spruces. This forest was deciduous. There were sycamores, oaks and hawthorns. The floor was carpeted in ferns and dense shrubs. He must be south, much further south than he’d been before. These trees also weren’t as big as those in the woods surrounding Alderheart. Was he still in Esden? He’d been in that crate only a few days. How far could they have possibly traveled?

Roker looked up at the rainy sky, with this dense cloud cover as far as the eye could see, he wouldn’t be able to get his bearings with the stars this evening. He’d have to get higher and find the mountains, or the sight of Alderheart to give him a sense of direction.
His stomach growled, he hadn’t eaten in days. He still tasted blood in his mouth from last night, it made him nauseous. He heard a scuffle in the undergrowth ahead and froze, heart pounding, then he saw a head raise, antlers.

His heart soared. A Cervan! He ran forward. “Hey!” he called out, it felt strange to talk after being quiet so long. “Hey! I’m lost! Do you know the way to…” he pushed through the undergrowth and blinked in surprise. The creature was no Cervan, rather if a Cervan were a full beast. It was a deer, dumb and feral, it fled from his sight and smashed through the ferns in graceful bounds.
“What?” Roker breathed in confusion and ran after it. “Hey! Come back! I need your help!” he tripped over a log and smashed into the rotting leaves and vegetation. He hissed and rubbed his shin, looking behind him at the log, the bark had been scraped away, grubby insects were feasting on the rotten wood. The insects were smaller than any he had ever seen.

“What the…” he crawled over and picked up a grub, smaller than his finger. These should be the size of his arm! His stomach growled and he shook his head and popped it into his mouth, chewy, sour, not entirely unpleasant. He ripped the bark up along the log and ate his fill of these strangely small insects then continued forward. Impossibly small giant elk, impossibly small insects, smaller trees. Was everything in southern Esden small? He heard the sounds of a stream and picked up the pace through the woods.

Sure enough, a stream carved through the woods, brown and turbulent with heavy runoff. Roker didn’t care about the color; he drank his fill and washed the mud and blood from his white fur.
“Well, Gran, you always told me to follow upstream to get to the mountains, downstream to get to the sea. Let’s find some mountains and get the hell home.” He shouldered the crossbow on a makeshift ivy strap and pushed onward.

Roker followed the stream for five days. Occasionally he stopped to forage, finding fish under the banks and crawfish under the rocks. He even spent another crossbow bolt getting a fat wood pigeon one night, though he had no dry wood for a fire, and the thought of eating it raw filled his stomach with bile. By the time he found dry wood, the meat of the pigeon had spoiled and he ended up using it as fishing bait instead.

“Damn.” He hissed, on the sixth day as his crossbow bolt went wide and a group of pheasants exploded into flight, rushing every which way. He grabbed the last bolt then paused and tucked it into his pocket. He had to save one. Who knew what dangers were ahead.

He pushed forward to where the pheasants had been and his heart pounded excitedly finding three nests full of eggs. He gathered them up carefully and carried them back to his spot at the river, the fire still crackling in its pit. After a dinner of many eggs he fell asleep with a full stomach for the first time in weeks.

Sometime during the night, the fire went out. Roker blinked awake hearing a rush of water, but before he could stand up, he was hit like a wave as the river burst its banks in a massive storm surge. He tumbled under the raging water. He managed to kick to the surface but in the dark and the driving rain he couldn’t make sense of up or down. The river smashed over banks and Roker smacked against a tree and spun in the water, his feet touched solid earth and he sprang up. In the split second he was in the air, he splashed down and scurried further up the bank into the woods as high as he could get. He dragged himself over a log and gagged out some water, coughing hard. He panted hard and slumped against the soggy moss. After several long minutes he heard a long, faint howl in the distance. His eyes snapped open and he looked around, ears perked.

“I’m here…” his voice was rough and garbled. “I’m here!” he tried to shout but his voice was so worn out. He coughed hard and tried to howl in response but he just broke down coughing up more water. “I’m here!” he stumbled to his feet and hurried up the hill. He just had to get higher! Let his howl carry! He smashed his way to the top of the hill and looked around in the dark. His darkvision showed a low valley forested in pines and in the center. Lights, lights of a town.

Roker laughed in exasperation. “I made it.” He rasped and threw back his head in a long howl, as loud as he could.

Roker had to take some rest before he set out towards the town the next morning. He was weaponless, hungry and bruised all over from the river. Hopefully the town was friendly to Vulpins. At the very least he could get a map and some directions back to the northern forests. He didn’t have any money for supplies but hopefully he could work something out.

The descent into the valley was long and grueling, it was still raining. It had rained every day that he had been here so far. Maybe he was in Firnveldt? It would explain the unfamiliar mountains, though it still didn’t explain the presence of those humanoids, the man and the elves. He had to warn the town about them, they had to be on guard.

It was past midday when Roker found a path in the woods that lead to the town, he was grateful not to be bushwhacking anymore, his feet were starting to get sore from all the rocks hidden under the rotting leaves and the thorny plants. As he neared the village, he saw a wooden sign hanging from a tree and hurried up to read it, and swore softly when he realized he couldn’t make heads or tails of the script.

“Must be Hedge script.” He muttered. “Or… Jerbeen?” He squinted. No matter what it said, he couldn’t read it, might as well ask when he got into town.

He walked up into the town, no one was out in the muddy streets that he could see, rain was streaming off the roofs as he looked up at the multi leveled log homes. He tilted his head seeing a set of antlers hung over a door, attached by a skull piece. He felt unnerved and hoped it was the spoils of one of those beasts and not the remains of a real Cervan. This part of Esdan was strange. He heard the window above him open up and he turned his face to the rain and his blood ran cold as he heard a scream. In the window was one of those fleshy-face humanoids, a young one, perhaps. It pointed at him and started screaming. That same garbled language that he didn’t understand.

“No… not here too.” Roker breathed as the doors to the houses around him flung open and to his horror, more of the humanoids stepped out, they pointed and started yelling. One drew a sword; another had a bow and was knocking an arrow. The streets were filling around him.

“Hey!” Roker put up his hands, eyes starting to widen. “I’m not here to hurt anyone! Where is this place! I just want to leave!” but his calls were drowned out by the noises around him and the air was stolen from his lungs as a crossbow bolt thudded into his back. He staged into the side of one of the buildings, smashing the window. The crowds roared angrily and advanced.

Roker ducked a swing of a sword and an arrow grazed his side. He was smashed in the head by the shaft of a long pike and he hit the ground, dazed and terrified. Another arrow hit him in the shoulder.

They’re going to kill me! He thought desperately trying to get to his feet.
A sword sliced across his back and he stumbled into a group of people that screamed and scattered at his touch.

'They’re afraid of me!' He thought.

Roker bared his teeth and snarled at the crowd, they balked and cringed back, giving Roker a gap, he sprinted through it and ran out of the village, an arrow grazed his cheek. Another hit him in the back of the leg. He kept running, he could hear the crowd giving chase. Why couldn’t they just let him run! He ran until he saw a creek then turned and ran towards the water, he ran through the shallows and up the other bank. There was a wall of rock covered in moss and ivy, nothing he could climb in this state. He could hear the crowd coming, louder, more aggressive. He backed against the ivy and felt it give, he spun around and swept it back to reveal a shallow cave, he gasped and jumped inside, pulling the ivy back. The crowd splashed into the creek and fanned out to look around. Roker backed up, five, six, ten feet. The cave wasn’t very big. He shrank to the ground, shaking with every beat of his heart. Any second now they’d find him. They came closer, closer. He shut his eyes tight and waited for the call, the thud of an arrow or the battle cry of sword swinger… but the voices started to fade. The crowd pushed further downstream, soon the woods were quiet.
Roker slumped to his side on the sandy floor. He could taste blood. Arrows were jutting out of him, and his tunic was in tatters. He breathed hard for a few minutes then raised a shaking hand and cast cure wounds on himself. He closed stinging eyes and collapsed, too shaken to sleep and too exhausted to do anything else.

Roker stayed in the cave through the night and most of the next day, eventually, his fear and pain started to give way to hunger and thirst. Movement was awful and he knew he had to pull the arrow from his leg and the bolt in his back was making each inhale short and shallow from the pain.
He grabbed a short stick and clamped down, ripping the arrow from his calf and stifling a snarl of pain. He wrapped his hands around it feeling the warm gush of blood flowing sluggishly. He spat out the stick and tore off one of his ragged sleeves, tying it tight around the wound. He waited several minutes before trying to flex to reach the bolt in his back, but no matter how he twisted he just couldn’t get a grip on it. He sighed out and gritted his teeth, pulling himself to his feet against the cave wall.

The sun was going down, the creek was empty of any creatures as he staggered down to drink his fill. He needed food and weapons. Who knew how many more of those humanoid settlements were around. Where was he? He had heard a howl! He had to find the other Vulpin. His heart sank. The trees were small, the deer weren’t Cervans; therefore, there was no proof that this wasn’t just some sort of feral wolf.

He crawled back to the cave, his hunger would have to wait, he cast cure wounds on himself again and fell asleep.
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Part 2 of Roker's Tale, this doesn't seem like Humblewood anymore....