Day Two-Sixty-Four: Partake of some monster mash

We travelled.

There's not much to say about travelling. I've done it before. Kinda had to. I wasn't born in that damned castle. I grew up in lake country, to the south, where my dad taught me to be a lumberjack and carpenter. He taught me to love the outdoors, to respect all the things I cut down. "Don't swing an axe," he'd say, "unless you really mean it."

I might not have meant it for every swing in my life. But most of them, I thought about it long and hard.

Not that long.

But hard.

And then our house burned down. That was shitty. But I'm getting off track. I've travelled, and I'll probably travel again, and though I doubt I'll be travelling to meet a new husband the next time I hit the road the point still stands. Or something. Yeah, I don't know what the hell I'm talking about anymore.

Barrel wasn't doing so great. He's a fast flyer, but he couldn't go very far with all of us on his back. We made frequent stops, usually near little lakes and streams so he could gulp down a drink, or surprise - and eat - casual grazing animals. One of the nobles managed to whip the rest into a tizzy by mentioning that he'd seen a sloth along the way, though we eventually established that it was just a brown bear.

Then we watched Barrel eat a brown bear. That made everyone feel better.

We also ran into some unexpected company during one of our stops: a band of nomadic zombies. Barrel was dead-set on coming down to greet the lot of them, despite everyone's frantic protests, and when we hit the ground the dragon immediately proved that the zombies wouldn't be a problem. The whole dang tribe came out of their makeshift village and bowed in front of Barrel.

He bowed back. I don't think he really had to do that, since he could have set every one of those rotting fuckers on fire, but that's just my opinion.

The zombies welcomed us into their camp, assuring us all that they wouldn't eat us in the presence of an 'honoured' creature like Barrel. That, coupled with their impeccable manners, won over most of the nobles. They joined the zombies for a feast, which, judging by the smells coming out of the camp later that night, I doubt any of the nobles enjoyed.

They also moaned. And danced. And… did… other… things. I don't know, I stopped paying attention after I spotted Harold arm-in-arm with some undead chick in a dress. Something about her made me feel instantly furious, though I don't know why… poor bastard, that Harold, he had every right to look scared…

But I don't know why…

I really hate that chick. Hope she falls apart in a hurry. Fucking zombies, making me irrationally dislike them for no reason.

I spent the evening with Robert, mostly in silence. The poor bastard was in shock, and still is, as far as I know: he's barely said a word since waking up from my punch to the face. All he does is rock back and forth, his cane propped against his shoulder, clutching a hunk of stone in his hand. It took me an hour of prying and threats to figure out that it was the last bit of his old library he had left. He's afraid he'll disappear if he drops it or puts it down.

For some weird reason, I believe him. Don't ask why, I don't know.

We continued travelling the next morning, and I was quite happy to say goodbye to the zombies. I don't trust rotters. The rest of our company was equally glad to be on their way, for though they hadn't been touched by the zombies, most of them figured they would be eaten the moment Barrel ever went out of sight.

Also, they smell like shit.

We didn't arrive in Goblinoster until Friday, and since tomorrow's Friday I'll talk about it then. There's just one other thing I want to mention before I put you down, diary, one thing I realized while I was staring down at the Indy Plains from Barrel's back:

Dragomir has walked this way before.

You walked with him.

As soon as I realized that I began to picture him far below us, on his stupid journey to save us all, gawking at everything in that stupid way he always gawks at new sights. I could see him ambling along, tripping over rocks and running away from angry beasts, his head shoved ass-deep in the clouds of his own imagination.

My Dragomir. Walking forever.

Libby