"Come on, Byron! The bridge will suffer your weight!"
"It's not the bridge I worry about, Sir Layton," gasped Byron Kenn, gripping the rope bridge with white knuckles. "It's my legs."
There was quite a fall beneath the bridge - Whitemure canyon was at least one hundred and fifty feet at its deepest - but the bridge was well maintained by the people of Whistlebridge.
"You're not going to fall, Byron; come along."
Whistlebridge itself was a small town - less than twenty people lived there - but it had a tavern so it was a common waypoint for both rangers and travelers alike.
The citizens of Whistlebridge relied heavily on the land to make a living, grazing their livestock on the sparse mountain grass and making good use of what was left of the forest that the town was built around.
Cedric could almost taste the stew when the scent wafted down the street from the tavern as the sound of singing and merriment was carried by the wind. I wonder if Anya is working tonight?