What's with the tree cutting?
Roger looked down at his current attire, a rough wooden stick in one hand, an iron axe in the other, and his clothes had been changed to the coarse cloth commonly worn by the townspeople.
At first glance, he really did seem to have the look of a lumberjack.
His pupils shrank slightly as he casually surveyed the people emerging from the forest.
"Who are you and what are you doing near our town?"
Roger took a few steps back, showing an appropriately cautious expression on his face.
"Don't worry, child, we're not bandits, just travelers passing through. We've come through the forest from the other side, in search of a place called Sleeping Valley,"
An elderly man with white-flecked hair came to the front, leaning on his cane, and looked at Roger kindly. Roger's mind sank slightly; he knew that this seemingly gentle old man had already used some sort of mental spell on him without his awareness.
"Oh,"