Fievon tried to occupy his mind as he strode along the path - - if you could call it that.  He continuously lost sure footing when rocks became unearthed and eventually tread mostly on the grassy areas on either side of the road.  His dark red hair was almost a maroon and it swayed just past his shoulders.  A headband with the symbol of a rising half sun was tied around his head keeping the hair together, he had to sell his helm for his travels.  His old military uniform was unrecognizable.  He had patched and modified it so often that only small portions held the same dark purple color.  He wore his chain mail  and boiled leather tunic over it, with his plated gloves to protect the hands that had been idle for too long this journey.  His dark green eyes scanned the horizon, yearning for a bed, ale, and a wench, but knowing he'd find none over the next hill.