text: Jobe had traveled down road - if you could call it that, the sorry dirt path only worn in from poor villagers bringing tithes - the past two days. The light unending drizzle of winter had turned the normally warm and hard ground into soft, squelching mud. Every step left him feeling that the earth itself longed to swallow him whole. Each footfall brought with it grime, slinging onto his trouser's legs. He shivered, pulling his damp cloak tighter to his back. He thoroughly regretted leaving this time of year - though he had little choice in the matter. After telling his Father that he no longer wanted to follow in his trade of piss and hide, spending his life looked down on, living on the edge of town as a Tanner, he had told him to travel south to enlist in the local Lord's army. The fire of adventure had been slowly quenched by how hard life on the road from his home had been. It started raining as soon as the sun had set - he left with a simple pair of clothes, dagger, cloak, and a bag with some coin and food he had scraped together. His bread had molded since last night - no thanks to the rain, and his joints ached from sleeping on the ground. He sighed, agitated, for no one to hear. "God will provide", he thought, clinging to hope. "If only this damned rain would stop, I could make it to the Inn." His village - while not small - was very poor. There was nothing between it and the major thoroughfares towards the larger keeps of the southern lands. His Father had claimed the village was cursed by the Jews after they had been driven out generations prior. Jobe had taken on many of his features - or lack thereof. A generic looking man, standing just under six feet. Brown eyes, dark brown hair in a bowl cut, and poor black patchy facial hair to match. The only thing noticeable was his overly large ears. By many opinions ugly - but not remarkably so. The only pieces he got from his mother was a sharp tongue, an open mind, and a surprising tolerance to beatings. After a few hours of unrelenting trudging, it was just past sunset, and there was a small amount of light left. He had finally reached a intersection of roads. He could've wept with relief, seeing the larger road had better drainage. No longer carrying what felt like pounds of mud with each step. He took a moment to reflect upon his surroundings, the dense forest that was surrounding him the past days had cleared up some, and ahead of him southwest lay open plains. Southeast the woods carried on for a short distance before turning to sparsely populated trees, the pines had yet to lose all of their needles, and still provided a good amount of cover to whatever may lie within. A milestone marker at the intersection let him know he was within an hour's walk of the Inn - straight south along the road. He squatted down to rest, contemplating to walk in the dark or to find a more dry patch of woods to rest in. To find a warm meal and bed for the night, or endure another cold hard rest. He had decided to travel on, and by many accounts a bad decision. Stepping up and trudging on, the harder packed clay road didn't give nearly as much as his previous. Jobe felt reinvigorated, the thoughts of the Inn spurring him beyond normal caution. He had just passed the edge of the forest on his left, when he heard sprinting footsteps behind him. His first instinct was to turn and look towards the noise, a true sign of his military experience - which is to say none. He got a glance at a fist in his peripherals, and then was hit square in the jaw. He felt himself falling, and the next moment on the ground. He felt mud and grime coating half of his face, and his clothes were soaked. He was laying in a puddle of something. His groggy brain tasted blood in his mouth, and his right ear felt waterlogged. He heard footsteps behind him, and his heart skipped and raced as his brain pieced together what was happening. He went to move his hands to push himself up, and found them tied behind his back. He squinted an eye open and found himself seeing a campfire some 20 yards away. The mud on his face had blocked the light from his eyelids. The sudden brightness caused him to quickly shut them back, and he wriggled trying to find some footing or ability to move. He felt the binds on his feet equally tight and unforgiving as the ones on his hands. The footsteps behind him stopped and a light chuckle sounded off. "I'd keep still and quiet in your place." Jobe craned his neck as far as he could to try and find the voice, but a foot pressed on his left shoulder, almost pushing him face down into the puddle. "Like I said, still." The voice sounded far from menacing - almost like a teenager trying their best to imitate their parents. Jobe's right nostril was in the water, and he had to breathe through his mouth to avoid sucking up whatever he was laying in. "Let me go! Take my money! I have no-!" His shouts, interrupted by being pressed the rest of the way down. "I said quiet, too!" The not-yet-man had replied with a hiss. After a few moments of struggling, he let off enough pressure to allow Jobe breathing room. "Now, I already saw you have nothing else. Your money wasn't enough. But your body might be." Jobe's mind immediately raced, trying to make sense of what he said. "I have a few friends looking for strong workers, and I think you'd fit perfectly." The not-yet-man paused, leaving Jobe to ponder what his future could hold. He had heard talk of slavers from the eastern sea, but thought them only rumors. Thinking back to his Father, his heart broke in anger at how foolish he'd been to think he could manage the world on his own. Barely a man of 20 years, with experience being beaten by the catch pole and his father, thinking he could survive a real fighter. "Please sir, let me go..." he begged "My family awaits me.". The foot on his shoulder lightened a hair more, returning him to his original position. "Where are you from, boy?" The irony of such a young voice calling him boy was lost on Jobe, in his predicament. "Myirwood! They would pay you handsomely if you brought me to them and said you saved me. I can get you more than the slavers will pay!" Jobe was grasping for straws, the dire situation he was in left no room for anything but last ditch begging. The foot pulled back, and Jobe heard him step in the mud. "Myirwood. How far is it from here?" "A day and a half walk north of here in good weather, sir! If...if we're still near The Fat Minister." Jobe replied, suddenly aware he was not sure how long he had been unconscious for, or if at all. The hit he had endured scrambled him real well. Jobe sat in agonizing silence for a few moments, until the voice replied "Very well." And the next thing Jobe felt was a boot kicking him square across the jaw, knocking him out once more.