I think I am lost in the woods.

I did not mean to be. Marco understands these hills very well, and sometimes his directions are vague when he sends us here or there to fetch him this or that. I am further down through the trees than we usually go. Marco has casually mentioned a set of cisterns in these hills, and I have learned that it is often those things which pass quietly that turn out to be of most interest.

The path back began to give me trouble when the hill curved away in a direction I did not expect, either on the crude map on my napkin or in the steps I had took before. The sky had become cloudy, and the sun has stayed hid, and while I recognize the hills, I do not know which is which.

The sky is growing dim, but it is not unfriendly out here. It is cool, but there is no wind. I have a good coat and good boots, and a blanket, too. The picnic that was packed for me was over large, and there is plenty left. I have managed to keep a hold of my hat.

These hills have felt the feet of travellers for centuries, tens of centuries, more. The hollow at the foot of this tree may not have seen others through the night, but I would like to think that it has. I imagine I can start a fire if I have need, but I do not.

It is very quiet.