He pulled the hood tighter about his head and neck to keep out the biting chill of the wind that shook the fiery shades of the autumnal woodlands surrounding this path. He wasn’t sure what this road was called or the village he passed through on his way here. It didn’t matter, he supposed. He wouldn’t be staying around long enough to make use of their names. Certainly not long enough for the simple folk of this land to learn his. He lowered his head to drink from an abandoned trough of water by a broken down fence that belonged to the shell of a homestead along the road. The cold water was biting but refreshing as it flowed down his weary throat, dry tongue and dryer senses renewed and reinvigorated by the life-giving fluid, and not for the first time, he was reminded of his dreams about the open sea that he had since his youngest days that he had always dismissed.