Songs of Travel, and the Path

Road, Ivan Shishkin

The Road goes ever on and on,

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can.

I have been on a journey. I have walked the road, first one foot and then the other. Through chilling wind and snow, down many errant trails, and o'er the most treacherous peaks I have taken my way. And though my destination still awaits me many, many miles down the track, I am here. On the path that is every path and no path, the grand river delta of earth and stone and root that branched out from my front door the day I took my first step. I cannot return to that home. None of us can. But there are homely places on the path, and a home at the end of every branch. I am not ready to rest my weary feet. I will keep walking.

Packing is key. Now, I'm hardly a roadly expert of any note, but I do know that if you're a halfling of any sense you'll need the following on your travels, at the very least:

• A solid walking stick (4d4)

• Material: 1. Pale Pine 2. Ruddy Cherry 3. Bleached Deadwood 4. Dusky Walnut

• Surface: 1. Alive and Fragrant 2. Smooth and Polished 3. Rough and Bark-clad 4. Notched with Mile-Marks

• Shape: 1. Gnarled and Knobbled 2. Branch-crowned 3. Pleasantly Crooked 4. Perfectly Straight

• Decoration: 1. Leather-wrapped Handle 2. Dangling Charms and Stones 3. Painted Brightly 4. Carefully Carved

• A reliable pack, large enough to carry all the following comfortably:

• A good supply of pipeweed, and a comfortable pipe. Seeds or chewing gum are a perfectly serviceable alternative, for those who don't partake.

• Well-made and worn-in shoes, ones that you're on friendly terms with.

• Several handkerchiefs, preferably in a variety of prints.

• A good journal, waterproof and attractive, and a pencil or pen for sketching and song-jotting.

• An instrument to entertain yourself and others. Recommended: Flutes, spoons, drums, jaw-harps, concertinas or a good strong voice.

• A jug of water or cider or beer, though all three are best.

• Snacks. Both walking-snacks (nuts, berries, fruits, biscuits) and sitting-snacks (bread and butter, cheese, sausage, broccoli) are vital.

• A good walking coat, heavy enough to keep the rain out, light enough to roll up and carry in the sun

You might contend that some of these essentials are hardly essential, but I tell you that sometimes the pleasure isn't so much in using them as having them. Feeling the reassuring weight of your pack on your shoulders, and remembering that you can reach in at any time and have all of this to hand. It's like a warm blanket (which is another thing you might want to consider bringing along) for your fretting mind, that voice in your head that insists without pause; "Did I pack everything I'll need? Have I left behind something terribly important?" I really must insist you follow this list to the letter.

The flow of the path is like the flow of water is like the flow of words. Sometimes the path or the creek or the song gets all stopped up and mucky, and when that happens there's little to do but push through and carry on. Easier said than done, of course, and often I make the mistake of trying to find a detour, a trick that will carry me around, even off to a different or better path. Foolish optimism, hubris really. There's no way but through. The path is wherever my feet land, and just because I haul off through the pricker bushes doesn't mean I've bypassed the steps I'd rather not take. No, it's best to face up to the blockage, no matter how discouraging. I tighten my pack and get to it, and never turn my eyes away. Soon there'll be nothing left in front of me but the wide open road and the slap of my feet keeping time with the fading notes of my road-clearing song.

Music is magic, and there's no doubt about it. You may accuse me of magical thinking, but thinking is a sort of magic too, so I'll graciously accept your compliment. But there is power in a song, whether it comes from a spark of queerness woven by the rhythm or from a deep well of strength and feeling that the words and melody tap inside of us.

The magic of a song is subtle, sometimes unpredictable. This is known, to smallfolk and large, to player and GM, and ideally embraced by all as such. When a song is complete the GM should, of course, give the player the benefit they were seeking with their performance. But they should also have a think on hidden meanings in the words and the tune. What was the singer really saying, consciously or not, in the lines between the lines? Think of it like interpreting dreams, as music and magic have much in common with dreams as well.

The singer should do their best to facilitate this by using colorful language, unusual metaphors, twists of melody and phrasing. In the end, the way song warps the world is generally subtle, serene, elegant. Treat your songs as portents, and jump on opportunities to show their effects in ways so gentle and slight that they might be discounted as nothing more than coincidence. Some examples of imagery in song and what it might portend:

Lakes, Ponds, Sea	Quiet and clear roads, apart from yourself and birdsong
Creeks, Rivers	Easy and quick roads, or a chance to hitch a ride for a spell
Hills and Mountains	An unexpected obstacle that will ease the way once overcome
Trees and Forests	Taking a rest (and lunch) may bear surprising fruit
The Sun and Sky	The next notable encounter will be exactly what it seems
The Moon and Stars	The next notable encounter hides a tantalizing secret
Clouds and Wind	Best to travel this next leg speedily to avoid looming mischief
Rain or Snow	A restful night’s sleep ahead, in a cozy and opportune place
Pets and Livestock	An opportunity to make a dear new friend awaits
Wild or Mythical Beasts	An interesting new acquaintance, best treated cautiously
Lovers and Sweethearts	Something arises to remind one of their darling, for good or ill
Family and Friends	A scene to make the heart ache for home looms ahead
Strange Folk from Afar	Embracing the odd ways of outsiders will pay off
Gentry and Crown-folk	You may benefit from observing (or shunning) strict etiquette
Grand Adventures	You’ll be enticed to take bold action, perhaps for the worse
Long Journeys	A detour laden with opportunity, profit, and likely danger
A Party, Music, Dancing	Unlooked for but not unwelcome company awaits you tonight
Food, Drink, Pipeleaf	An opportunity to forage or buy some capital comestibles
Odd or Shifting Meter	The road leads to a shocking and unexpected locale
Dense or Complex Rhyme	A fraught situation awaits you, morally or socially

My first mistake was thinking of my journey as one grand journey. Yes, I'm going to be walking this path for such a very long time, but every walk has stages. It's hardly all the same path, even though it is the same path in the end. I go to bed and I wake up, stamping a firm divide between each new day. I take a turn in the path, and suddenly it has a whole new character, and it feels like a different path entirely. The trees are broader, the sun hides behind a cloud, a great vista opens up before me like a new chapter in a much-loved story. These sights are waiting for me, around every last corner. They're just ahead, out of sight. A mere stroll away from this spot and before the morning is over I will be on a brand new path, even though my feet have never turned aside from the same old track.

Strolls are the business of an hour or a morning's journey. Round the neighborhood after breakfast and back to your door in time for brunch. They're no less meaningful for their brevity, of course. One never knows how one's path might swerve, even when one's front door is still in sight over one's shoulder. That's the beauty of a stroll. Magic within shouting distance. For instance:

• Wanderer's Camp
• Believe it or not, some folk wander from place to place all their days, never settling down for good. Strange 'uns, to be sure, but just as friendly as you could wish a neighbor to be, temporary or otherwise (and nicer than some of your permanent ones by far). Within the low stone wall is a collection of tents and wagons, along with a cabin and a couple of lean-tos that are neatly kept for those who need a place to rest their weary head in a pinch. Cookfire smoke is usually trailing up into the sky, and always smells strange and delicious.
• Moves
• Strange Ways: Local folks tend to be cautiously friendly with the wanderers, but sometimes suspicion overtakes their better natures. If there's any mysterious mischief in town, the wanderers will bear the blame unless proven otherwise.
• Revolving Door: There's always a new face or two at the Wanderer's Camp, and oftentimes familiar wanderers have moved on just when you needed to have a word with them.
• Fran Bothykeep - An elderly halfling woman in a threadbare sweater and heavy socks rolled up over her well-worn woolen pants. She passes through the village once every three months like clockwork on her rounds as she wanders the county, visiting each of dozens of public shelters hidden in quiet, green places and making sure they're clean and comfortable.
• Personality
• Quiet and patient, with a wry sense of humor.
• Forgiving of many things, but mistreatment of her bothies or disrespect toward well-behaved wanderers will earn her eternal enmity.
• Always in need of a good weatherproof hat, and will be overwhelmingly grateful to be provided with one.
• Moves
• Keep Your Pep Up: Fran is always carrying extra packets of nourishing trail food, and doles them out generously to anyone in her favor.
• I Know A Place: If you tell Fran where you're headed on your travels she can always direct you to a safe, dry, and warm shack to spend the night.
• My Friend - A most accommodating goblin of indeterminate age and limited mastery of the common tongue. They refer to themselves and everyone else only as "My Friend." A forager and homebrewer, they've always got something interesting on hand, be it tonic or smokable or fungus-based snack. Always willing to barter for it in goods, services or entertainment, but never for money.
• Personality
• Effusive and friendly, but a bit self-conscious about not knowing the proper halfling niceties
• Completely oblivious to the prejudices some folk hold toward goblinkind and unlikely to understand attempts to explain.
• Very susceptible to praise over their wares, which sends them into bashful blushing fits.
• Moves
• Lemme Check My Bag: If you're after something in particular, they've always got something that's almost what you need, but a whole lot weirder.
• Shiny!: When bartered something interesting for their wares, they may pop up unexpectedly some time later to provided much-needed assistance with their new treasured posession.
• The Rolling Hill
• The rounded hill that overlooks your own little village. The grass is pressed down on all sides from folks flinging themselves down the thing, but it's still soft enough to protect against more than light bumps and bruises. Sure, it's mostly a pastime for the young and the foolish, but it's not uncommon to see even the wisest and most respected elderfolk climbing up top for a gentle tumble back down.
• If you get rolling fast enough, you might fall right into the moonlit lands, or at least that's what some excitable types claim. So it's very important that you don't bundle yourself up tight in a sheet, and get a good solid push from a couple of friends, and tuck your limbs and squeeze your eyes shut and hold your breath until you're spinning like a top and careening down the slope at reckless speed!
• The old nubs of great standing stones sit atop the Rolling Hill, now just high enough to serve as a comfortable seat for observing rolling or the wandering of sheep or the setting of the sun. They've been worn down over the ages, by wind and rain and resting bottoms. It's said if you rub them for luck, sometimes you'll soon after discover you've got a knack you never knew you had.
• Moves
• Falling Out: If you really throw yourself into your roll, and the conditions are just right (1-in-6 while nobody's there to witness it, or at GM's discretion) you very well may fall into the moonlit lands. It's just like the waking world, but always cast in bright blue moonlight, and there you can see a great many hidden things. Secrets and hidden etchings glow in that moonlight, and the moonlit reflection of the folks from this side will always tell you their deepest secrets without a hint of hesitation. It's hard to stay there though, and you'll be shoved right back to the sun-shining world at the slightest nudge - say, anything that might rouse a light sleeper.
• Fated Fetes: On days when festivals are held at the Hill, those who pay their respects to the stones with a kiss or an offering of something to drink receive a elfin blessing. They may expend this blessing to use a knack/spell of their choice once, or may hold onto it to barter should they ever meet one of the fair folk in person.
• Wilbert’s Crossing
• A stone bridge, narrow but sturdy, and frankly too much for the trickle of a creek it spans. It lies on the main byway to the next town over, so it sees a fair amount of crossings, especially on market and festival days. Wilbert Reedwaller lives in a hole beneath (a proper, warm, tidy hole mind you).
• Moves
• Ominous...: Folks from far afield who aren't in the know about Wilbert and his shenanigans find the bridge a bit foreboding. Wouldn't take much to convince them that a terrible monster guards the crossing, especially if Wilbert's in on the fib.
• Wilbert Reedwaller - A middle aged bachelor with a consuming fascination for strange creatures. He collects cultural artifacts and memorabilia from ogres and such that pass through (warily mind you!), and the bits and bobs he digs up around the old battlefields from the warlike times many years back. His favorites are trolls, and he often dons his homemade troll mask to scare wee ones crossing the bridge.
• Personality
• Playful and jolly, and effusive about his interests.
• Poor at picking up on cues that his japes or enthusiastic lectures are falling on unwilling ears.
• A great giver of gifts, and always willing to exchange something nice for an interesting trifle to add to his collection
• Moves
• I’ve Seen That Before: Wilbert can approximately identify the significance and use of anything made by large, rude creatures.
• Blarrrgh!: Wilbert can easily terrify any wee folk or gullible individuals with his troll mask.

Just as it doesn't do to stare at my feet, the road straight ahead is not my only concern. It's vital to look at the trail beyond the next turn, the next mile, the next mealtime. Not to map or to plan, necessarily, but to awaken my mind and my senses to the grand possibilities that lie off the intended path. The scenic diversions I could take, or the secret ways hidden from those who aren't awake and aware of everything around them. I know I must have stumbled past many such routes in a daze, head down and heedless of anything but the path I thought I had no choice but to stick to. It's a shame, but nothing to mourn unduly. There are yet secret ways, new dirt to feel under my feet, and strange gates to step through on my way. No, do not shun the path, but neither let it pull you along like a beast of burden. I am not the road's master, but no more is it mine. I will take my rambling way along and over its borders, and into the forest dark to discover moonlit tracks to places unimagined.

Rambles are our longer wanderings, the sort we might take a handful of times in a year. A day or two at the outside, down carefully plotted path or in whatever direction we choose. They shake the cobwebs out of our lives, fill us with excitement and energy and, eventually, a great relief at returning home at last. They are trail markers that shine in our fondest memory, marking the passing of happy years.

• The Old Timer
• A grand old tree, older than your home or your village and maybe even older than recorded history. The fat trunk is bent and smooth with the years, and his branches spread into an enormously wide canopy of pale green. He wears a dense beard of moss and lichen.
• Trees this old tend to get a little queer, and a little mischievous. Gotta do something to make all those years pass, and the something the Old Timer has been doing is developing an impish personality and an inscrutable sense of humor.
• Many creatures make the Old Timer their home, in nests in his branches and nooks in his trunk and burrows beneath his roots. The space beneath his canopy is always alive with silent, secret life. They may welcome you, if you're quiet and patient enough.
• Moves
• Woodland Japes: The Old Timer is a stately old tree but he doesn't act it. Through subtle influence and the force of his playful spirit he can make very minor misfortunes befall you, seemingly through sheer implausible coincidence. He always watches to see how the victims of his pranks react, and favors those who do so with humility and good humor.
• Fauna Parley: Creatures of many kinds live in and under The Old Timer's boughs. They live here peacefully, thanks to his influence, and this is a place where contact can be made with just about any common animal of the woods. However, disrespect or violence will not be tolerated. The Old Timer and his tenants will not hesitate to expel any unruly individuals from their presence, and quick.
• The Grand Shoals
• In a widening elbow of the great river the water chatters gently over a series of sandbars, leaving a great expanse of shallow, rippling water. The sun glints golden off of every curve of the surface like leaf on a fine old gilt tome.
• This is, of course, a fine spot for fishing, and not just for fish. Lost things, strange and forgotten and valuable things have a habit of turning up on the shoals, just waiting for spry handliners or sleepy anglers to snag them. Only a few know the shoals' secret, and it's rare to see more than one or two fellow fishers on a given day, if any at all.
• While it's quite safe to wade out into the shallow waters, local superstition holds that you should never cross fully at the shoals, but instead ford in a deeper spot, or better yet head another mile downstream to the Sweetclover bridge. Sometimes when folks cross the Shoals they don't make their way back for days, if at all. Better safe than sorry.
• Moves
• A bite!: When successfully fishing in the shoals, you've an equal chance at landing a plump fish or an odd treasure. It might be a family heirloom of someone you know, or an outsider memento, or even an odd little whatsit with a strange power. Whatever it is, it's been recently or long-ago misplaced by its owner, and surely they'd be much obliged if you returned it to them.
• River Crossing: If you wander all the way across the shoals to the opposite bank, you've got a 2-in-6 chance to end up somewhere else entirely along the river. Might be somewhere near and familiar, or far off in the outsiders' lands. Either way, crossing back to the other bank of this new place won't send you back to the shoals...you'll have to trek on back the old fashioned way!
• The Outpost Public House
• It's a great service, to keep an inn just on the edge of the wilds, where the wood encroaches into the roads in a sly and probing way. Someone needs to be the final light on the border of homely lands, shining out into the dark and quiet. Beckoning homecomers. Seeing off travelers. That's the Outpost, a beacon and a chapel to the divinity of comfort.
• A lumpy, thatched roof over a single story of whitewashed stone. A bright and warm firepit in the center of the common room. The smell of roasting things and frothing things and filling things. The sound of singing folks and laughing folks and whispering folks.
• For all its comfrots, the Outpost does sit very far afield. Lots of folk there are a bit on the queer side, and might discomfit the sort of person who hasn't much left the hills of home. That's alright. They've met your type, and they're patient. They'll win you over, no doubt, until you join the strange and varied throng, and in your queerness become one with all.
• Moves
• Hearthlight: The Outpost is here to cure all ills, at least the ones that don't require a doctor. If you are lonely and morose, here lives cheering company. If you are cold and hungry, here lives hot, nourishing stew. If you are frozen with fear, here lives humming ale and fortifying song.
• Thalton Sulung - Cruel fate has dictated the proprietor of the Outpost should not be a halfling, but he has not let that spoil his good humor and hospitality. He runs a gloriously comfortable inn, and he revels in the incomparable joy of being as good a host as a man half his height. He's sharp-featured and graying, and his radiant energy never seems to flag.
• Personality
• The consummate host, jovial and attentive. Often able to identify his patrons' wants and needs from a look, even when they don't know themselves what they're after.
• Generously charitable to those in need. He relies on his fervently loyal customers to discipline those who might take advantage of his largesse.
• A widower, who has never let his husband's absence diminish his love for life or for the love of his life.
• Moves
• Well, I heard...: Thalton has news from every corner of the world, and is always eager to share the most interesting tidbits he's recently harvested from his guests. His rumors may relate to places and people known or unknown to you, but they're always eminently actionable.
• Guest Registry: If you are in search of someone in particular that may have come this way, Thalton has a precise record of when they arrived and when they left...why of course they stopped in at the Outpost. Who would pass up such an opportunity for merriment.

Landscape at Fontainebleau Forest, Abbott Handerson Thayer

I know I suggested otherwise, but sometimes a journey really is a journey. Made up of a patchwork of smaller bits, sure, but once in a while the only way to get where I need to is to step back and get some perspective on the whole thing. This can be a terribly, cruelly difficult thing to do. From that perspective I can see all the paths on the path. All the ones behind me that I missed, through neglect or ignorance or sheer pigheadedness. All the ones to the side of me now that I don't have time to wander down. All the ones in front of me that I could probably reach, but only if I change course right this instant and never look back. It can be a mighty weight, seeing all that all, and all at once. What I do is stop, and look down at my feet once I've seen what I need to see. Then I can see the dirt staining my boots (or toes, as I'm a traditional sort of halfling). See the living things growing up at the sides of the path, or right in the middle. Look at the feet that are traveling with me. And how lucky I am, to have such dear companions on this otherwise lonely road. All those other branches of the path may also have lovely dirt, or beautiful views, or terribly nice folks to walk with. But these are the ones that I've chosen, by my own two feet, by every step I've taken all this long time since I left my front door. That is a miracle, friend, a true miracle. So I fix my eyes ahead now, and I take the hand of the man I love most dearly, and I set off on my journey. Let the other paths slip away into the grand dendrite matrix of the world; our path is richer for the knowledge that they're there.

Journeys come once in a lifetime, maybe twice if you're lucky...or unlucky, depending on your perspective and aptitude for adventure. A journey is a very personal thing, a life's work, or an unforgettable diversion from a life's work. It's an astounding, courageous thing to leave the comforts of home behind for months or years. I can't possibly tell you what these journeys might signify to you, or how they weave into the greater fabric of your life's journey. I can't tell you why you might choose your destination, or what you might find there beyond what's whispered and sung of in stories older than the roots of your family tree. All I can do is point you toward the place you're meant to find, and trust that you will make of these bones of myth something beautiful and profound.

• The Mountains Beneath the Moon
• The Still Sea is the Moon's womb and grave. Every night she is born, shedding curtains of icy water as she rises into the sky. Every morning she lays herself to rest, disappearing under those waters without a ripple. Around the sea lie the mountains, made strange and cold and beautiful as they bathe nightly in her light.
• Elves live on those slopes and peaks, odder than even than the odd fair folk wanderers that so rarely pass through our lands. Rumor has it they know the secret songs of water and stone, and can shape those things to their will in the singing. That their voices can still the water and stone in your blood and bone, or weave them into choruses to make you as odd and fair as themselves.
• The water of the Still Sea glows with the light of the Moon long after it leaves her presence. Bathing in this light, tasting this water...well, let's say it's got a lot to do with the strangeness of the moon elves. Perhaps the water is the way the Moon teaches you her songs.
• The City that Once Was
• At the bottom of a canyon so deep and winding that light never reaches its foundation there was a grand city of iron and stone. It's still there, of course, deep in the earth's deepest scar. But it's silent, dead and empty. Untouched, but unliving.
• It's not uncommon for dragons or trolls or even stranger sorts to take up residence in the ruin of the grand folk of yesteryear. Not so in the City. It remains resolutely vacant, haunted only by the signifiers of what was lost; tables still set for meals that were never eaten, places of worship as still as the grave and as eerie as the moonlit lands, cable cars still running their routes unceasingly and unpatronized. This was a place that was alive once, as homely as your home, and as loved by its residents. Why did they leave? Was it by choice, or by force? Will we leave behind the places we hold most dear just as abruptly, just as completely?
• Three Spires of Earth and Stone
• The paths of the world wander in every conceivable direction. But when they reach a door, they end, for the places between walls are a world apart from the open byways outside. Not so here, where the paths stray under arch and into darkness, and yet remain paths to wander. They climb into the sky, into the Three Spires where few have tread and fewer still have returned.
• Some say the Spires are the end of the world, and some say they are the beginning. Some claim they form the beginning, middle and end of all things. If your path becomes their path you will leave behind much, but become something greater than you were. Or perhaps you will leave behind nothing; you will emerge exhausted and terribly wise, and yet wish for nothing more than to return to the comforts of your home and gather your thoughts. That would be a great gift, to learn so much about yourself and all that is and conclude that you have always been where you are meant to be. Imagine how much sweeter your evening tea will taste, flavored with all that knowing.

The Road goes ever on and on, and so will I. There's not much for it but to keep walking, is there? First one foot and then the other, and then on in the same manner until there are no more steps to take. Then I will wander no more. Then I will be the road itself, the path that is every path and no path. I will be every artery and tributary of the grand delta of roads, and I will see each and every traveler to the places they choose. That seems to me a fine thing to do, and a fine place to be. I'll see you there.