Find Yourself Traveler

As you ride through the dark and misty wood your thoughts turn towards your last warm meal and pint of ale. It's been three days since you've had anything but trail rations but you recall back to where you dined that evening and you remember where you were. Where was it again traveler?

My own home. There's no place like it.

A campfire. I hunt and forage my own food.

A bustling metropolitan pub. They have the best shanks of lamb.

A rural tavern. The ale is not as watered down as those bigger city establishments.

Your axe hangs by your side bound by leather straps and thumping gently against your mount. Traveler, tell me, is it bound to you or your steed?

It's bound to me. I'd never be caught in a fight without it.

It's bound to my steed. It's more for utility than combat.

The night turns cold and begins to bite at your face. You know that your destination is yet a several hours ride from your curent location, which you manage to realize with exactitude. Pray tell traveler, what means do you come to such precise knowledge?

The stars guide me on clear nights like this.

My map and compass are enduring companions.

I know these woods like the back of my hand.

You resolve to set up camp before before long. Some rest will do you good, a fire will keep you warm, and the last of your trail rations will fight hunger pangs. Which do you prepare first traveler?

The fire. I prefer light while I work.

The food. How can I sleep on an empty stomach?

The tent. At least I'd like to unpack first.