The route Follows-Chalk takes used to be a winding trail for hikers; there are reflective circles hammered into the trees every so often, where there isn't a visible beaten path underfoot. Now and again Chalk stops the group to let something pass. Herbivores, usually, at least if the enormous sheep-like things he calls bighorners haven't taken up eating meat in the years since the War. Arachnids at times, too- "Watch out for those little brown scorpions," he mutters as something the size of a middle school child scuttles by. "They won't kill you, but you'll be seeing funny for hours after, and you'll be hurting for days."

Josepha wrinkles her nose. "Is there a treatment for that?"

"Oh, sure, but I only got enough for one person," says Chalk. "The shaman's got more if we need to take you back."

"Great."

The path continues, winding upwards over a hill to rejoin the cracked remains of a road wide enough for cars. A battered sign to one side reads CAM GR UND.