Another night passes before the grassland of the steppe begins to become rockier, and you look ahead to see the ground rising into low, rolling hills.
The Varrel Hills are not an area you know much about, save that they are the region that borders the Great Steppe on its northern side. Merchants coming from the north would speak of the Varrels largely as a lawless territory, though they certainly saw the steppe as no better. To your knowledge, there are no great kingdoms in the Varrel Hills but rather individual villages and towns that are responsible for managing their own affairs.
You glance back at the caravan. The men and women of the Tribe of the Red Bear ride behind you, and now that you have left the familiarity of the steppe, you acutely feel the weight of your responsibility toward them. The Varrel Hills are but the first step on a long journey to the Valley of the North Wind—if such a place truly does exist, though you feel in your heart that it must. It is almost certain that not everyone who now depends on you for leadership and guidance will survive.
You look ahead to where the foothills of the Varrels draw nearer and consider that perhaps such thoughts are best put from your mind. You need only do the best you can. Not even the gods can ask for more than that.
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