The stars shone brightly overhead. Dean walked casually, traveling on foot to his next destination. Apparently, someone was having a little too much fun with planewalking ion a small village on the Salquedor Grasslands. He had just received the notice not too long ago, from an old friend of his. One needed underground connections to succeed in the business of hunting. Otherwise, jobs were few and far between. The town was “plagued by all manner of odd phenomenon, from creatures appearing and wreaking havoc to the occasional slowing or quickening of time”. Certainly sounded like the type of disturbances caused when amateurs tried to rip open gateways into other planes.

But it was at least five day’s walk from where he was now, and he had only just awoken from his day’s slumber. He swirled a rationed jar full of blood in his hand, drinking in the night’s meal while he was certain he was alone. People tended to react negatively when he was caught enjoying a snack. One edge of the container was stained from the blood making its way up the side and into his mouth. He tried not to let any of it trickle out the sides of his mouth as he ate; blood stains were so hard to remove from one’s skin, especially when one was without any salve or cleanser like he was.

Dean finished his snack and tossed the jar aside into the lake. He had a few more where that came from, stored in the deep pockets of his coat. The sturdy, thick glass added support for when he used it as a pillow during the day. If Dean had wanted to proceed with absolutely all haste, he could have traveled day and night, sleeping on a few hours before moving on in 18-hour stretches. But really, how much damage could one amateur planewalker do? It certainly wasn’t enough to urge him to run himself ragged with hasty traveling.

Dean heard something, in the distance, perhaps 300 yards behind him. Footsteps. He was being followed. Dean turned his head over his shoulder to see who, or what, decided to accompany him on the shore this evening.