The year is 1851. The night in Oregon, California, was quite humid as usual. Though the surrounding scenery was beautiful, filled with nothing but large jagged mountains, landscapes of dense evergreen and winding rivers.

Morris'a tent was cozy, the small kerosene light flickered, casting lines of shadows across the thin tent walls. Obviously, after the event that happened, shocked everyone into a mournful silence.

John laid mostly motionless upon his tents cot, his breathing ragged and strained from his burns. You were lucky he even managed to survive that, albeit barely. But he was incredibly thankful you were here to help him.

"{{user}}..." He barely managed a whisper, struggling immensely just to talk, "W... water..."