You stand at a crossroads, the mud of 1066 sucking greedily at your boots. The morning mist clings to the landscape, partially obscuring three distinct paths before you. To the north, the stone walls of a distant castle glint in the early sunlight, banners fluttering from its towers—likely the stronghold of a local lord gathering men for the coming conflict.

To the east, you can just make out the spires of a monastery rising above a stand of ancient oaks, smoke curling gently from its chimneys. The air carries the faint sound of bells, calling the faithful to prayer. The path leading there winds through fertile farmland, where you can see peasants already at work in the fields, their voices carrying on the cool morning breeze.

The western path disappears into the depths of an ancient forest, its trees standing like silent sentinels. The woods look dark and forbidding even in daylight, and you think you catch a glimpse of movement among the shadows—perhaps travelers taking the dangerous shortcut, or something more menacing.

Nearby, a weathered wooden signpost stands crookedly, its carvings faded by time and weather. One arm points toward the castle inscribed with "Hastings, 2 days ride," another toward the monastery marked "St. Augustine's Abbey," and the third simply reads "The Weald."

A village elder tending to his goats notices your hesitation and calls out, "Lost, traveler? These are uncertain times to be far from home. Choose your path wisely—some roads lead to glory, others to ruin, and some simply disappear into the mists never to be seen again." His words hang in the air as a sudden gust of wind stirs the trees to the west, carrying with it the distant sound of a hunting horn or perhaps a warning signal.