By late morning, the fog loosens its grip. The valley widens, and the clustered roofs of Oberried come into view—quiet, frost-tipped, almost watchful.
Gord halts at the edge of the village and nods toward Rothütle’s pack.
“Your bag is rather heavy,” she says. “And noisy. Let me check it.”
Rothütle hesitates. “It’s just my things.”
“In the deep forest,” she replies, kneeling beside a mossy stone, “weight slows you down — and noise draws the wrong attention.”
Reluctantly, he hands it over. Gord examines the contents with calm precision: a notebook, spare shirt, ink bottle, three pens, and a carefully wrapped pastry.
She lifts the pastry.
“For morale,” he offers.
“For animals,” she says, setting it aside. “And possibly worse.”
One by one, she removes anything that could rattle, crumble, leak, or leave a trace.
“The corrupted parts of the forest use what you carry against you,” she adds. “And Jack knows how to track by traces.”
Rothütle watches his pack grow unnervingly light.
“I feel exposed.”
“Good,” Gord replies, repacking only what matters. “A quiet burden keeps you alive.”
Tip of the day. Removing unnecessary components makes your images safer.