Another night of total darkness passes in peace, although sound travels eerily in the pitch-black. The nearness of the brook ensures that the night is damp, but still, you awaken slightly refreshed from your rest and notice that your wounds have started healing nicely.
A woodpecker hammers somewhere in the forest as you set off again. Retracing your way to the mosaic, you continue your way northwards through the forest. Five hours of breathless and scratchy travel later, the forest finally shows signs of thinning and wheeling seagulls overheard suggest you are not far from the coast.
It is another hour of travel through pleasant, if chilly, rolling hillsides before you see a tall, white tower in the distance. At it's base, a number of wooden longhouses are clustered. A sheer cliff falls away barely twenty yards from the tower and seabirds wheel and soar about the beacon. For the beacon it is, a bright fire burns at the tower's apex, tended by a single figure wrapped against the wind.