Iruzja awoke from her slumber in about an hour, enough time for her to regain most of her energy. She got up from the bed of grass she had lied on and gave her body a little stretch to relieve herself of her soreness. Picking up her backpack, Iruzja continued her trek through the forest. Across the stream was a narrow, winding path around the forest that seemed to lead downhill, perhaps towards the main road. Iruzja had quite lost her bearings during the nap, and she decided that going down this path might be as good a guess as any. She went down the path and walked a hundred meters. Two hundred. Three hundred meters, it seemed like, was the distance she had walked before she saw him.
He was a sight to behold, to say the least. A burly old hiker, sprawled out on the road like horse dung, purple berries trapped under his right hand. His eyes were open, as was his mouth, and his left hand clutched his stomach as if he was in deep pain. He was...a corpse. Long dead, it seemed, too--his body seemed to have begun to decay, and a foul stench was present in the air. Any other trainer would have made haste with their escape at the mere sight of this abomination, but Iruzja was no such coward. Ever the opportunist, she approached the rotting cadaver, kneeled beside him, and search his person for anything she might be able to use in her journey. Her ten-minute scavenge resulted in a wad of cash, a number of miscellaneous items, and five bags of rations clearly past their expiration date. While the last she wisely decided to leave, everything else she took with her, packed very neatly in a plastic bag she procured from the corpse--no sense rubbing the revolting odor on the rest of her belongings, after all--and Iruzja backtracked to the stream. She subjected the unfortunate river to cleansing Iruzja and her newfound belongings of the corpse's filth, and, after finding that Laughner's supplies did not contain a towel, dried herself with her blanket.
After dressing herself and re-packing her findings, Iruzja returned to the winding path--crossing the poor corpse again as she went--and her guess was proven to be correct: the path did lead to the main road. A large number of trainers walked along the dirt path, and some of them were even battling against each other, to the constant stream of travellers' disdain. One of them, a lively young man perhaps halfway into his teens, went up to Iruzja and said, "You! Let's have a battle, half earnings, eh?"
Uninterested, Iruzja turned her back on him and did not even grant him a simple "no". After all, the next encampment laid in wait on the horizon, perhaps one, two hundred meters from where she was standing. It was marked by an overarching rock formation, and beyond that, several mountains, their tips scratching the very fabric of the skies. She could make out a line of tents surrounding the rock formation, and what seemed to vaguely resemble a market up front. Just what she needed--perhaps the less useful among the dead man's things would fetch a pretty penny, and she needed to stock up on medicinal items anyway. She already took a step towards the encampment when the young man from before shouted behind her again. "What's the matter, you scared?"
Deciding to humor him for a bit, Iruzja stared the young man in the face and demanded, "Name."
"Greg Wilder, why?" came his reply.
"Are you familiar with the story of the demon barber on Fleet Street, Mr. Wilder?" Iruzja asked randomly, taking a step closer towards the young man.
"Uh, yeah. What about him?" he said, his eyebrow arching at the unusual question. "Are you just trying to avoid--"
"Perhaps you recall what happened to poor Pirelli, when he attempted to blackmail the barber into giving him half his earnings--coincidentally, the same amount you wanted to bet against me?" Iruzja asked, her tone menacing.
"Um, well, I think he--"
"He stabbed him, Mr. Wilder. Stabbed him to death, with his friend, his silver razor," Iruzja cut in, drawing her knife out of her coat. "And hmm, I happen to have a silver razor of my own here. I wonder what I'll do with it?"
"Hahaha, you wouldn't! Not over refusing a battle, no way," he ridiculed laughingly, but Iruzja noticed that his face was white with fear. A natural reaction, considering his status as a wee tyke of some fifteen years.
"Try me. Try me," Iruzja dared. She was in his face now, and the tip of her silver dagger made contact with the meat around the boy's hip; the feel of the cold steel sent a shudder up his spine. The lad said no more and hightailed it out of Iruzja's sight, quite understandably afraid of the woman's psychotic facade. What he didn't know, though, is that his belongings was now short of a wallet, courtesy of Iruzja's silver "razor". Quite satisfied with herself, Iruzja opened the leather wallet to reveal only a meager amount of money. "Tsk, so that's why he made such a large a bet," Iruzja said to herself. Stifling her ire at the boy, Iruzja turned around and again made her way to Kamen Rock, this time, to her delight, without interruptions.