Bolthole - 01

Fine, misty rain drizzled down from the dim gray sky. The brisk wind drove the droplets in billowing waves, almost (but not quite) like fog, and the air was cold, its edge sharpened by the approch of winter. The suburbs of Bolthole had seen better days, nature's reclimation was swift after the Fall; buckeled foundations and swarthes of plant life replaced white picket fences and manicured lawns.

Heuradys' boots splashed through the thin layer of mud coating much of the old road, thankful for the tread recently replaced with old mountain bike tires. Erring on the side of caution, she had stripped out of her plate to her Brigandine, as it made less noise and its molted green paired with the natural brown of her linen warcloak aided in her stealthy approach. It was stashed with Axios, just off the main rode, shielded by pine trees, no longer threatened by the loggers of days past.