A Wayfarer Arrives on the Isle of Druids

The distant sound of seagulls roused his consciousness, quickly followed by the smell of the sea and the rush of the salty water lapping over his form. With a groan, a tall man opened a singular, vibrant green eye to the sandy ground beneath him. The daylight was bright, causing him to wince and cover his face with his sore arm. Pain and stiffness raked his muscles and limbs as he cautiously moved, dreading the spinning sensation waiting for him as he raised his head. It was a good thing he was already on his stomach, for it would have been slightly embarrassing to heave up whatever remained of his last meal mingled with a gross amount of saltwater.

His name was Trystan Afon.

Grains of sand clung to his ruddy, tan skin once the biliousness subsided. Damp, dark hair clung to his face and the back of his neck as he pushed himself up and rolled to sit up. He flexed and stretched his extremities while his keen eyes took in the scene around him. There was the sea with its roaring whitecaps and tumultuous currents. With the strength of his arms and legs, he eased himself away from the lapping waves so as not to risk getting swept up by the tide while he was still in his weakened state.

The beach was sandy, sturdy while packed and wet. He wiped his hands on his breeches before attempting to clean away the sand and crust from his eyes. Clearing up his vision, he noted the debris that was scattered about him. Broken planks of wood, partially submerged crates and barrels, indicators of what remained of a shipwreck. Trystan slowly blinked and looked up at the pale blue sky. Had he been on a ship? He didn’t remember ever being on a ship. His throat felt parched.

Eventually, he patted himself down and looked down to confirm. He was missing his usual gear. No sword, daggers, bow, or quiver of arrows. No belt, pouch, cloak, or jerkin. He wore a shirt. He wore pants. But the boots he traveled so many miles in were gone. Stolen, most likely. A solid pair of boots was hard to come by. His toes clenched in the wet sand, causing the smooth surface to crack and crumble beneath his feet. He must not have held up against the altercation with the brigands he spied in the forest. He noted the sores and bruising on his wrists and ankles, and concluded that he either escaped or at least managed to remove the bindings before…

Before whatever happened that found Trystan deserted on this sandy beach.

The tan-skinned man with the bristled five-o’clock shadow stood at his full height once he felt the pain in his head had subsided long enough. He was over five and a half feet tall, and the change in perspective allowed him to better understand his situation. He was not the only person to get washed up onto the shore. On further investigation, Trystan would find that he was the only one to survive. Each time he came across a body of some poor sailor, the man frowned with displeasure at leaving the corpse behind. He didn’t have the tools to dig them a proper grave. And graves on a beach never lasted long when the tides rolled in. There was plenty of wood among the debris, but most of it was soaked. Unburnable. For the time being, he dragged the bodies further up the shore, away from where he figured to be the tide line. He then sifted through the debris, crates, barrels, and bodies for anything of use. There was a curved sword that the sea water hadn’t completely ruined. A leather jerkin as well. Boots, of which he was grateful, though sorry that he had to loot them from a body. A wide-rim hat to shield his eyes from the sun. He hoped the pouch of shards would come in handy. It would be enough for now, though he would have preferred a bow and a quiver of arrows to hunt with.

The forest beyond the beach looked dense. He’d lose more arrows than hit his targets, Trystan wagered. The man had burned daylight hours scouring the beach. He was hungry as well, but nothing appeared to have washed up for him to eat. Fishing was out of the question, as anything that was worth eating would be too far from shore for him to catch without a boat and net. His head turned, and his green eyes scanned the canopy of trees. Berries would be his saving grace if he could find any edible ones. The young man with the dark hair, likely in his early twenties, heaved quietly to steady his nerves before striding along the edge of the forest. He wasn’t about to go bumbling in like a fool. Surely, there were game trails to follow.

When he did indeed find a path, the wayfarer marched into the forest. Determined to figure out where he was, find some kind of settlement, and survive whatever the universe decided to throw at him.

The shipwrecked man noted how old and densely packed the trees were. Several thoughts came to mind. He was either in an ancient forest that civilization had yet to reach, or on a smaller island rather than a larger continent. The breeze that sifted through the leaves and branches made it seem as though the forest was whispering rumors all around Trystan. Possibly about him, though he wondered what they could know about the stranger other than the sea spat him into their collective embrace. Rays from the sunlight above barely penetrated the lush canopy, and what did manage to break through revealed white and golden motes of pollen floating through the gloom.

He heard chirping, indicating that there were indeed birds living among the branches. They were somewhere off in the distance, and not along the game trail he purposely followed. Straying too far ran the risk of the young man getting lost; a fate Trystan wished not to endure if he could help it. His calloused hand went for the hilt of the curved blade he carried as the sudden sound of rustling among the underbrush. He turned his head, intense green eyes scanning the area around him for signs of a predator. The birds continued to twitter, but no growling or howling. Yet.

He continued along the subtle trail until something caught his attention from the corner of his eye. The rim of his hat blocked part of his view. Something of an undetermined size filtered through the trees, causing the man to freeze in his tracks as he surveyed the area more closely. Was it a figure? A shadow? A ghost? He felt his heart pound heavily in his chest. Were the woods haunted? Or enchanted by the fairy folk? He gulped quietly before whipping around at the sound of something snuffling behind him. Surely, that meant a boar, right? The sword was drawn and held in both of his hands as he took on a defensive stance. His green eyes darted over the bushes, peering through the leaves and branches. But there was nothing there. He panted for air when he realized he had momentarily stopped breathing. Trystan was a child the last time the forest frightened him so. He could have sworn he was no longer so young, but perhaps he only grew too familiar with the woods so close to his family’s home. He gulped again, set the blade back in his belt before realizing he may have lost the trail.

SCOUTING DIFFICULTY – 10