The tankard our lady raised had once belonged to the king. They say it was on the table as he sang the great onward ballads. Most vessels in his time were plain, yet this one was carved with the incomplete map. One could follow it as far as the old king had been, to the edge of ‘the known.’ Everyone knew that around its other side was only a smooth canvas awaiting the chisel. They say it was this way so that he would see his task with every sip of mead. Yet with his passing, horses saddled, she is the one we’ll follow over the line.
The flower was a beauty unto itself, and to my eye it was a breadcrumb out of the dark forest. I am quite sure it wasn’t there yesterday, but a flower such as that takes a good few weeks to grow. And upon approach, it vanished only to regrow another ten feet down the open road. Though I cannot say what that bloom was, what I can say is, I had a duty to follow it.
There was an explosion in her brain... the good sort... the type that carries more possibilities than she could be conscious of... but there were hundreds of ideas there in that buzz of electricity... she could feel it. It was the calling card of adventure, of paths awaiting her feet. Whatever was ahead could be a great challenge, and there could be tears, but it was her adventure to take and so she smiled. The ideas would come, probably when she least expected it, so she laced her boots and took a step.
The call of the adventure has a way of bringing my pilot light back from the brink.
Adventure is my blood type.
Adventure was a song that whispered to my soul, speaking of new things upon the horizon.
Adventure never grabs you yet simply tells you only the start of the story and asks if you want to follow the trail.
Adventure grins at me as a new friend, as an old friend, as if he knows the answer is yes before he asks.