Andrej was last in Calenburg in June, when it was green and lush. Now the leaves have fallen over the road, and the horse's feet crunch the leaves as they ride. As you pass through Munster-an-der-Ortze (the other Munster), past companions are dimly remembered. It's been a month since the battle in Arnsberg ... already one month. The party feels strangely old and mature, perhaps more than they've ever felt. They're like their mentors now, people who have seen some significant part of the world and who have tales to tell both pleasant and unpleasant. And it has only been a few months.
South of Munster-an-der-Ortze, the road leads to Celle. South of here, Andrej recalls there's a fork that goes either to Hildesheim, the road Andrej knows, and Brunswick. You reach Celle by mid-afternoon, and there the party dismounts and waters the horses in the Aller River. From here, the ground climbs above the wet heath of Lower Saxony, to drier parkland. There's a ford across the river that does not cost money to cross. The party hopes they can make the aforementioned fork before dark.