I wonder how many have walked into this forested darkness before me, weapon in hand, in the hopes of winning the bounty? It has to be dozens during the reign of King Mor alone. How many walked in under his father, his grandfather? Under the Wittlemites? Under the Rogol yoke or the ancient Borgingdians?
Have any ever walked out? The edge of the path is littered with broken bone.
I have nothing to lose: with no war, there is no pay, and the stomach does not pause for peacetime. Either I will prevail and eat, or I will be eaten.