Palanan
The camp-fires are small islands of tired fellowship within the unforgiving night of the Ashenwood.  Each snapping-dance of flames barely warms the travelers huddled and sprawled beside it; yet they dare not build the fires further.  The air around them is so damp and chill that it forms a gauzy halo about the fires, their struggling glow barely reaching the great boughs around them with a tinge of flickering copper.

Beyond the warm motes of the travelers’ camp, and the firelit flanks of their horses nearby, presses down a great weight of stillness and dark.  The stray sparks whirling up might be rising towards the unseen roof of some immense and lightless cavern, deep beneath the earth where relentless night has reigned without challenge since the world began.

Apart from the rustle and snap of the humble flames, and the low voices of weary men, the entombing dark seems to smother all sound, without so much as the whisper of a falling leaf.  The encircling silence has a taut, watchful air, and the clink of knives against bowls feels too loud, somehow intrusive against the patient stillness of the dark.

Any of the travelers might be forgiven for believing they are in the untrodden heart of the Ashenwood, many scores of miles from the nearest warm hearth, with no path to be found through the high and ancient trees.  But here on their second night since leaving Reidh Sliabh, the travelers are scarcely three miles within the Ashenwood proper, having descended through misted pine forests spilling down from the westernmost flanks of the Ülgurül Hills.

The stony switchbacks down precipitous pine ridges were taxing enough, let alone the persistent rain, and took the most of the past two days.  Only late in the afternoon did the travelers pass into the chill humid air of the Ashenwood itself, and full night crept around them sooner than expected.  It is the last stage of their long homeward journey, yet it may prove the most perilous by far.


 ⚜ ⚜ ⚜ 

In the eighty-seventh year of the reign of King Fróðhræfn Thoredsonn of Cynehelmbeorg, a calamity unforeseen broke the  cyngfriþe  which had lain for so long and so well upon the Rèidhean Mòra.  Over the snowy ramparts of the Beanntan Àrda swarmed countless war-bands of Sceathalings, who swept in a savage onslaught down the mountains’ western flanks and into the rich vales of the Seofonēas below, seizing a great swathe of land between the mountains and the eastern bank of the Abhainn Mhòr.

Valiantly the dwarves of Kingshelm rallied to counterstrike; but again and again they were driven back by the great numbers and animal cunning of the Sceathalings, and King Fróðhræfn saw that he could not preserve his realm with the strength of dwarven-kind alone.  Thus he sent urgent word to Argentéuril, beseeching aid and invoking the compact between his nation and the Silver Court, reminding them of the ancient friendship between their peoples and the vows they had sworn together.  Swiftly the king’s messengers were received at Argentan, and they were given solemn promises that aid would be sent.

Then a crusade was preached in all the domains of the high counts of Argentéuril, to take up arms and honor their ancestors’ oaths—and in so doing honor the Lord of Light and Law, in Whose name such a war would be made just.  So too would they honor His vassal, the Seneschal of War, who judged all men by the oaths they broke and kept.  From throughout Argentéuril came barons and knights and men who answered the cry of crusade—but most of all from the Western Baronies, who traded most closely with the dwarves of Kingshelm and the Ride, and who would be the first to suffer should the Sceathalings sweep across the Ride and beyond.

Thus it was that Baron Achard de Mauvinet, Castellan of Chantemerle, together with his son Droco and the knights of his barony, took the sacred vows of crusade and led a company of their men to campaign in the far eastern mountains.  There they fought on the high mountain-slopes and icy passes for three years without pause, striving against not only the war-hungry Sceathalings, but the many cruel things which had followed in their path—bloodhorns, iron-wights, snow-trolls and worse creatures, which nor men nor dwarves could name.

For three long years the Baron de Mauvinet and his son Droco made war against all these foes and more, ever at the head of their dwindling company of knights and men, until in the high pass of Bealach Sgrathail the young Droco was driven apart from his men and surrounded by many foes, and there he fell ere his father could ride to his aid.  The old baron was much grieved that it was his son who had been slain, and not himself; and long he brooded above the bloodstained snows of that pass, as he waited unspeaking for the next attack to begin.

Then it seemed a fey mood befell him, and ever he sought out the thickest fighting until he too was slain; and both the old baron and his son were laid to rest, facing the sunrise, amid the icy boulders of the Bealach Sgrathail, there to guard it evermore.

Then the knights of Chantemerle, weary of war and bereft of their commander and his heir, undertook to return their liege’s testament and tokens of authority to his estate, that they might present them to Droco’s young son and swear their fealty to the boy as the new and rightful heir.  And this too they would swear: that they would safeguard the young liege-elect and the dowager baroness until such time that Droco’s son came of age, and could assume his titles and the lordship of the Mauvinet estate in his own right.


 ⚜ ⚜ ⚜ 

The chill air above the several camp-fires is so heavy with moisture that it hangs on the verge of becoming a thin fog.  The fires are kept barely alive with fallen wood gathered from the forest floor, rather than cut from green growth—for the old tales are not forgotten by those who would travel safely here.

Around each fire are gathered several crusaders, still damp from two days of rain and leaning close to the flames for what warmth they can find.  Each knight has a small fire of his own, shared with his retainer and men-at-arms; though these men have been making camp together for long enough that there is little ceremony among them, and they join what circles they please.

Men, and one woman: for young Jean de Marrolles is in fact Jeanne, who had cut her hair and bound her chest to join the campaign—and who had taken some while to realize that the others had known all along.

Now sparse murmurs, and the low shorthand of long acquaintance, are the most of what is heard around the fires, though Sir Hugo occasionally gives a hearty chuckle.  Sir Hugo the Red is a great bruiser of a man with close-cropped russet hair and beard, whose resonant laugh on more festive nights can be heard for miles.  His steed, a black destrier of sixteen hands, is the only one of their horses sturdy enough to support his bearish frame.

Nearby reclines Sir Thecelin the Half-Ancient, grave and quiet in the firelight as he often is, with none of the gaiety that might be expected from his elven side.  He is alone of his kindred among the returning companions, and often keeps his thoughts to himself; but he has a knack for making dry comments that both ease and amuse the unsteady heart, which has long endeared him to the men.

Across the thick leaves of the natural clearing is Sir Guichard—compact and weathered, war-bitten with many scars, his dark eyes glinting like cold steel as he tends the edge of his blade.  The oldest of the surviving knights, close friend to the old baron and once a mentor to the baron’s son, Sir Guichard says little, watches keenly and misses nothing.  While the knights are equal in rank, he has been the unspoken leader of the returning crusaders ever since they set out, and in any engagement his command is taken as law.

Youngest of the knights is Sir Galeran, lean and aristocratic, still in love with the ideals of knighthood and the adventures to be had.  He is gallant, bold, and skilled at arms; but there is vanity in his skill, and he has none of the other knights’ natural ease with the men-at-arms.  Rather he carries himself with a hint of aloofness—which may be why his fire, though bright, has the fewest companions of any.

These are the returning knights of Chantemerle, but one other has journeyed with them: Beorhtgār Banehelm, a dwarven warrior of mighty name and hero of many battles throughout the Beanntan Àrda.  He travels now to stand witness for his people that the last wishes of the old baron are honored, and that writs and tokens of lordship are brought to the young boy who is now heir to the barony and castellany of Chantemerle.

Once Beorhtgār has seen this done, he will raise a small company of new recruits from Chantemerle and return through the Ashenwood, across the Ride and into the Beanntan Àrda once more, there to rejoin his people’s fight.  The knights of Chantemerle have come home to honor their pledges and safeguard the young heir; but for Beorhtgār Banehelm, the war to reclaim his homeland is far from over.

 . 
tonberryking
"So's I says to Ted-ted, I says..."

A rather boisterous half-orc young woman still somehow manages to keep her meal balanced on the flat of her wide bladed kukri laying in her lap.  Of course, small slices of bread she dips into her soup mug aren't  that  hard to keep still, but it does say something that she's not spilling anything while telling a rowdy yarn to those gathered around Hugo's fire when it was her 'turn' to do so.

"THERE we were, a buncha runts barely growing out our beards or boobs, but me and the gang laid flat the Downsouth boys after one insult towards our parents too many. We just rushed the door of their hideout with big sticks and Ted-ted was swinging a chain, hollering like a devil had its hand around his ankle and we slammed them up real good before they could ask what the hell.  Chased them off and we took over their shanty shacks down by the river before noon--"

Her laughter is a hearty roar on it's own, despite being no where near Hugo's size, she seems to be trying to be more uproarious than him, "-- And we couldn't even figure out how to play with their crooked deck a' cards!  But the Downsouths, they found some big hulk of a brute to evict us in revenge--he had a face only your horse could love, Hugo-- and he lurched into the shack, trying to grab us and toss us out.  We raised such a fuss that the towns watchmen finally showed, but get this! We heard em coming and all fled out the sides or jumped out the windows of the shack, just dove right out and that huge headed goon tried to escape the same way! Oh you should have seen the look on his face when he realized he got stuck in a window just before all his thrashing brought the whole place down on him and the cops!"

She shoves the last of her bread into her maw and continues laughing after wolfing it down. Unlike the mostly somber knights, the mercenary known as Punk has been enjoying herself ever since the caravan started.  Having held no part in the losing battle as the knights, she still seems unbothered by the Ashenwood itself, as if it were a welcoming fortress of trees surrounding them.  Nor does she seem bothered by the scene she herself is making, encouraging anyone else to tell a wild tale to make the meal taste better and lift the spirits up.

Her efforts, perhaps, may not be as appreciated as she thinks they are.
Chromascope3D
"I'm not sure young Ted-Ted was a good influence on you, Ms. Punk," the elf chuckled as he drew charcoal across the page of the leather-bound journal in his lap, sketching a rough approximation of the woods around them. His was a kind not often seen in these parts; His skin was fair and oddly free of blemishes, despite the traveling; his hair smooth and gold, retaining its sheen and luster despite the lack of regular washing; and his expression pleasant, inoffensive and perhaps too amiable: A half-smile etched across his face, and half closed eyes that always seemed on the verge of sleep, but whose yellow irises flit back and forth, always observing and discerning. He called himself Buck, as he reasoned it was far easier for the layman to say than his full name, and he wasn't one for excluding others unnecessarily.

A green and brown viper snaked its way up Buck's white robe, and coiled around the elf's brass collar. His smile broadened as he reached up to scratch under the serpent's jaw, crooning, "Ah, Elly, found a fat mouse to eat did you?"

Elly's forked tongue flicked out and withdrew, as the elf mused, "You know, it did not occur to me until now, but I have not heard the drone of even a single cicada since we entered this wood. What manner of forest is this where even the insects choose silence?"
Palanan
During a brief lull in Punk’s boisterous monologue, Sir Thecelin speaks quietly—in a dry but carrying tone—in the lilting elven-tongue, the words reaching from his campfire to where Buck is resting:

“ Lenäye an’orólessë, ẏn srá-hanië qi’īndorei anadónyó, saçerẏnë.  An marëndioi uluán sān glëára, īlio ányadarië marélai srän-hainäne sẏ’isīl ëi-äwanai ."


 
 Spoiler: Buck 
“You might ask your companion to moderate her tone, elder brother.  There is an unwholesome quiet in this wood, and we should take care our voices do not carry too far.”

Sir Thecelin’s comments are phrased in the respectful subjunctive, and  saçerẏnë  is an archaism among half-elves, used politely towards their fully elven kindred.
 
Chromascope3D
Buck smiled and leaned back, stroking his bare chin, musing in return:

  
 Spoiler: Elven Speech 
"Hmm, Elder... Here I am scarce a century old, almost a child in the eyes of many of my kin, but, I shall take the compliment nonetheless."

"As for my companion, well, I cannot command her to do or not do that which she does not or does wish, but, I shall pass this concern along.
 


Leaning over to the half-orc, the elf intones, "Ah, Ms. Punk, the knights are, mmm, concerned about the nature of this wood. They worry that too much noise might attract unwanted attention, and I suppose that I am of some mind to agree with that assessment. What do you think of this?"
Vegan Squirrel
Sir Winston, a young human knight with long, blonde hair and reasonably polished scale mail, gravitated toward Sir Guichard's campfire, hoping to learn something from the experienced leader of this crew. He quickly realized that the man was one of few words, however, and so his attention drifted to his surroundings. This only filled the lad with a greater unease.

The almost sinister feel of the dark and quiet woods, amplified by the autumnal chill, remind Winston a little too much of an unpleasant memory—camping in the woods with his fellow bandits, with a weird sense that something was off, originating from a dark and sinister cave where evil rites were performed, and demons summoned. Those days were in Winston's past now, but that sinister feeling makes him warily consider just what might be hiding among the trees.

Just then, Buck's words catch Winston's ear, and he finds himself nodding. "Aye, we shouldn't draw too much attention. This quiet feels sinister, like the woods don't want to be disturbed. Share your tales, enjoy your meals—but be wary."
Farmerbink
With an easy bearing, almost comically out of place, Falgarra chuckles quietly.  The leaves wrapped tightly in her red braids bounce like green thumbs out of place.  " You don't  always  have to fear what you don't know, lads, " she murmurs, gazing about the dark woods with an odd expression; both reverence and contentment easily visible on her face.  " It's true that some uglies call the Ashenwood home, but it's no worse nor better'n the sea nor the hills.  She wants what all of us want- to  live.   Respect Her like the elder matron she is, and you'll be fine. "

With a sigh, she turns to Beorhtgār, reeling in her comfort once more for the sake of her worried companions.  Murmuring quietly in the tongue of the Dwarves, she smirks wryly.   
 Spoiler: Dwarven (Dhaoine Cànain) 
" You'd think the Elves would be more in tune with nature, not shivering like ninnies with their hands in the biscuit jar.  You'd think they expected the earth to open up and swallow 'em whole... "
 


She rises, groaning quietly.  Without a word, she strides purposefully to the edge of the flickering firelight.  Gazing into the depths of the woods, she sighs.  Tenderly, she places a hand on the broad trunk to her side, and simply watches, pondering the fate of her missing neighbors and nephews.
Chromascope3D
"I find fear to be overly maligned as far as emotions go," Buck muses as he sketches, "While certainly, too much fear can blind and impede you, forcing you to work counterintuitively to your own goals despite your more rational self's best wishes, the same could no less be said for overly sating your rage, or even joy!"

He looks up at the dwarf, maintaining his same inscrutable smile, and continues "Rather, I believe maintaining a healthy sense of caution at all times can do wonders,  especially  in the face of the unknown. After all, if I don't know what venomous animals await in this wood, how will I know what antivenoms to prepare and apply should I be bitten? Better, then, to take care that I not wander off the beaten path and thus help ensure that I am not bit at all."

The elf waggles his charcoal in the air as he thinks for a moment, and resumes drawing, "Still, that is not to say that I am not looking forward to our excursion here; the best cure for superstition is academic and philosophical  rigueur . What this forest needs is to be surveyed by someone with a critical and discerning eye. Identification, categorization, and classification, hmm, yes..."

He trails off, leaving only the scribbling sound of charcoal on paper.
Vegan Squirrel
"I agree with those thoughts," says Winston. "It's important not to be consumed by fear, but it's also important not to be reckless," he says with a smile. "Let's keep our spirits up, and our wits about us, both!"

And with that, Winston shook off his trepidation and turned his focus to keeping everyone's spirits high. He shares no great stories, but makes a point to laugh at the jokes and smile generously.
Palanan
As Falgarra moves away from the fires, Sir Galeran springs up nimbly, and in several swift long strides he is stalwart beside her.

“None of us should be out of arm’s reach of any other,” he says earnestly, hand upon his longsword’s hilt.  “We are but wayfarers here, and newly arrived; and we should not venture this darkness incautiously.”

No sooner does he finish then the tree  groans , from deep within its oaken heart, as if complaining at their presence—or the dwarven woman’s hand.
tonberryking
Punk abruptly stops laughing at her own story half a breath in while the tree groans.  Typical, really, just when she was getting along with the too serious crowd.  She grabs the remaining bites of dinner between her fingers and wolfs down the pieces of bread one by one.

"Flarg." She curses in orcish, "If we're made, we're made.  Someone magical cast a light spell up in them trees; you humans'll need it," Punk tugs a little on her yellow scarf as she stands, her large iron headed hammer already in both her hands.

 She doesn't get  too  far out of arms reach of the other knights that were sharing the fire, but she waves her hammer around as if to make herself a target rather than any knights struggling to sit up or not spill their meals or reach for their swords.

 
 Spoiler: OOC/Rolls 

Perception: [roll1d20[/roll]
Checking around to see if there's anything around; she has darkvision 60 ft out of course.
 
Farmerbink
" Good sir, if you expect the ground itself to rise up between us, I can't fathom why you'd ever choose this path.  The Woods are no foul creature awaiting only the right moment to pounce.  She's an aged matron. "

She eyes the tree with obvious respect.  " I've never known one to recoil at her children's touch.  If she's  ill,  or mistreated, I'll deal most severely with her tormentors. "

At the groan, her gaze rises more steadily upwards, and her hand lowers to the haft of her hammer.  In silence, she peers into the darkness, unhindered by the firelight behind her.

 
 Spoiler: OOC 
 (1d20+7)[ 18 ]  perception
 
Palanan
Sir Galeran, who had been standing beside Falgarra, is taken aback by the sudden rise of the large half-orc and her fast-moving weapon.  “Have a care, La—ah, Mam’selle Punk!”

Others among the knights and men only murmur, “Steady on,” or “Ho there, sit down now,” with more concern for Punk’s hammer than the dark beyond their fires.  But Sir Hugo is on his feet with a swiftness and quiet that belies his twenty stones of bulk.

The glint of firelight from her own swinging hammer distracts her eyes, and Punk sees little else.  But Falgarra, more composed and already looking deep into the dark, catches a glimpse of two distant pinpoint eyes, reflecting the dim campfires with a strangely greenish-yellow light.

They seem fixed on the travelers for a moment; and then the gleaming eyes abruptly vanish, as if something hunkered low among the unseen trees had silently turned away.
Vegan Squirrel
Winston notices his companions reacting to something, and reaches for his bow as he peers into the darkness. "What's this, then?"  Just when I'd started to let my guard down , he thinks, silently chiding himself.

 
 Spoiler: OOC 
 Perception:   (1d20)[ 18 ] 
 Move Action:   If he succeeds at noticing any creatures, Winston  detects evil  on one of them.
 
Palanan
Sir Winston’s sight, sharpened by months of campaigning in all seasons, proves as true as that of any of his companions.

He also sees the twin pinpoints of gleaming emerald-yellow; and as they vanish he has the merest impression of a shaggy bulk.  Whatever it is, the creature is too far away for Sir Winston to sense the nature of its soul, and he feels no evil in the woods about him.
Farmerbink
" Aye, there, " Falgarra calls lowly, her voice pitched to carry to the vanished eyes.  She lets her hands relax, suddenly less concerned about being pounced upon from the trees overhead.  " If you're curious or mean well, you'll find no foes here.  If you're hungry, best seek softer prey! "  She eyes the spot for several long seconds, to see if who, or whatever it is responds.

 
 Spoiler: OOC 
gonna go for conservative diplomacy, so the results are limited to 5-15.  (1d20-1)[ 1 ] 

Edit: hahahahaha, that puts her at a modified  4 . 😁😁😁

I don't figure wild empathy will apply, since we cannot "study each other," but in the event this is indeed a wild animal, I'd appreciate the shot 😎
 


In a quieter voice, she all-but whispers to her nearby companions.  " You knew we wouldn't be alone out here, aye?  Huddling beside those blazing beacons doesn't make for many new friends. "
Palanan
“Lord of Light, keep your voice down,” Sir Guichard warns Falgarra from his fire, in a hard tone that abrades like a gravel streambed.  “You can worship the trees and their little friends from a distance, once we’re safely through this place.”

Meanwhile Sir Hugo has come up quietly beside Punk, his thick arms held out as if to fend off her waving hammer; in the firelight his bearded face has a slightly comical expression.  “Ease down now,” he tells Punk, as if she were a squire of his who needed just a touch of gentle instruction.  “Better to let these things pass unremarked.

“Now then,” and he half-turns back towards his fire, “you were asking about the city of magic, weren’t you?  Let me tell you about Sparkhaven….”

 . 
Chromascope3D
"I agree, even if fire might aggravate some forest creatures, so long as it wards away any wolves I'd rather risk with than without," Buck concurs, concern across his fate as activity around the camp picks up, but this quickly gives way to curiosity. Snapping his journal shut, the elf binds it closed with a leather strap and sits up, regarding the knight with rapt attention, encouraging, "Yes, yes, please go on!"
tonberryking
"You've been there?"

Punk has a rather...boisterous manner.  This became apparent for pretty much everyone gathered, individually, not five minutes after meeting her.  But she responds to Hugo with a flat, even tone, perhaps with a hint of curiosity, but with little of her exuberance as she heads back to her seat by the fire and leans on her hammer resting headfirst against the ground.

"What's it like?"  She asks innocent, though now and again she turns back to stare off into the darkness.  Never for long, but with just enough wariness to satisfy her instincts, even if her curiosity has the lion's share of her focus, "And how do you know about it?"

 
 Spoiler: OOC/rolls 

Perception  (1d20)[ 1 ] 
 
Palanan
Sir Hugo seats himself, then waits until Punk has settled down by his fire, swirling his mug as he draws out the moment, ensuring that Punk, Buck and the others are paying attention.  Or at least, in Punk’s case, as much attention as her instincts will allow.

“It’s a long ways west,” Sir Hugo tells her, “longer west from Chantemerle than we are now from the eastern mountains.  It’s west of Argentan, and it’s not the largest city in the realm, but it’s damn well one of the strangest.”

“Sir Hugo!” interjects Sir Galeran, with a touch of reproof.  “A knight should not stoop to using profane utterances in his speech.”

“You’re so ******’ right,” Sir Guichard agrees, sharing a guttural chuckle with his men-at-arms.  Sir Galeran half-laughs in a mixture of disbelief and embarrassment, while Sir Thecelin leans back, arms behind his head, and quietly stares up into the firelit leaves above them all.

Raising a hand against further protest, Sir Hugo continues: “Now, not every street has rainbow paving-stones, and not every shop has a luminous sign.  For the most part it looks like any other city.  But if you pay attention, you’ll—” he rocks his head back and forth a little— “see things.

“Folk there aren’t shy about using small knacks if they have them.  Maybe one in ten has some talent; most of them are simple, just tricks and so forth.  But spend a few days there, and you’ll start to realize there are stronger magics in play—things you really have to see to believe.

“Now the Lord and Lady have things to say about magic and how it’s used,” he goes on, with a more earnest tone.  “And I don’t disagree with Holy Writ that witches and their ilk have no place among us.”  Sir Hugo briefly brings his fingers to his forehead, while Sir Galeran makes the full symbol of the Lord of Light across his own lips and brow.

“But in Sparkhaven it’s different, you see—there’s a power there that guides the magic, or at least that’s how it seems to me.  —I have no skill at these things.  I know steel and blood and fine horses; but there’s a… feeling  there in Sparkhaven, as if there’s something….”  He pauses, head angled as if searching for the right word among the overhanging branches.

“—Elegant,” he decides.  “There’s some power there that’s  elegant , that shapes and contains all the lesser powers.  They know about it in Argentan; they must, you see, or there’d be a crusade to the west as well as east.  But whatever it is, whoever it is, it keeps Sparkhaven safe—and I mean it keeps the magic there safe for the rest of the realm.

“I don’t know much more—but I know this: if you go there, you’d best be able to hold your own.  And I mean on  their  terms.  Different rules there, the kind of rules that we wouldn’t know—” his fingers stir the air beside his head, encompassing all the listening soldiers around their dabs of firelight— “but sorcerers would, and all their kin who are wise in such arts.”

“Which sure as **** ain’t me,” says one of the men-at-arms, and laughter rises in the cool dim air about the fires.

“Which sure as **** ain’t me,” Sir Hugo chortles in agreement, and fills his mug again.
Chromascope3D
Buck chuckles in return, having been listening with rapt attention and jotting down the knights words in his journal. He taps the charcoal against his chin as he muses, "I wonder what circumstances led to this 'Sparkhaven's' nigh heretical embrace of the arcane..."
Farmerbink
Falgarra stares into the darkness, silently daring whatever she saw to refuse her- which of course it does.  She keeps her peace for some time, without moving- breathing with forced steadiness as the soldiers to her rear begin joking and sharing tales once more.

After several minutes, she decides the creature is allowed to ignore her, for now, and her eyes finally drop to her hands.  With a curious expression, she smiles, before turning back to the strange group of fellows.

With a quiet peace she doesn't feel in earnest, the matron returns to Beorhtgār's fire, pointedly taking a seat that faces where she had previously stood.  " Hate being watched when you can't see back, " she grumbles.  " Never will understand the appeal of a fire that ain't used for cooking. "
Chromascope3D
Buck chuckled as he answered, responding, "Well, I suspect it's for much the same reason as you just gave. Our good hosts' eyes are not as sharp in the gloom as yours or mine are, and they will certainly need them should your bogeyman choose to come pick a fight after all. The good lord knows I won't be as much help in that regard, despite mine eyes."

The elf looks pensive for a moment, but cheers up as he digs around in his bag, continuing, "Well, but, since it appears the threat has been warded off for the time being, the fire will give me a chance to do my work!"

He unrolls a parchment scroll decorated with a large pentacle in the center, and a number of empty glass phials, one of which he centers on the symbol and, placing both hands on the parchment flanking the glass, he begins to chant in a light, airy tongue.

 
 Spoiler: Celestial 
Buck's prayer weems to invoke "the serpent mother," petitioning her for her healing arts.
 


As Buck chants, the phial seems to miraculously fill with a faintly glowing liquid. He draws his prayer to a close, setting aside the concoction and replacing it on the parchment with another, to which he repeats the process.

 
 Spoiler: OOC 
Buck will use Create Water on five vials, and five charges of Divine Alchemy to create 3 potions of CLW and two potions of Sanctuary, taking a total of five minutes.
 
Palanan
Sir Hugo is still chuckling when Buck wonders aloud at what might have led to the arcane circumstances of Sparkhaven.

“—As to that,” Sir Hugo half-turns his bulk to the elven artist, “I couldn’t say.  Just how it’s been for a long while.   When  it began, and  why —” he shrugs—“past me.”

“Sansetarius.”

From where Sir Thecelin is reclined by the embers of his fire, still staring up into the dark masses of leaves above, comes a single word.

“Sansə-sta- hwæt ?”  Beorhtgār stumbles over the unfamiliar name.

“Sansetarius!” Sir Galeran nods in sudden comprehension, continues with an overeager tone:  “Chief archivist for histories in the Royal Library at Argentan.  —He puts his seal to all the geneaologies of knights’ families,” Sir Galeran adds.  “If anyone would know the deep history of Sparkhaven, it would be him.”

“—All right, we’re all indebted to Sir Hugo for the bedtime tales,” Sir Guichard interrupts, sliding his blade into its sheath with a snap.  “But we’ve a full day of this place tomorrow, and a week more after that if we’re lucky, so let’s have the fires low and heads on the ground.  Sir Thecelin, you have first watch with your squire and two others.”

“And for gods’ sake, watch your ******’ language,” murmurs some anonymous wit; and with a few more comments along these lines the men-at-arms bank the modest flames, adjust their blankets on the thick-strewn leaves, and stretch themselves out.
tonberryking
As if she didn't already like Hugo before, Punk gives him her rapt attention when the elder knight recounts what he knows.  Some shadow briefly passes across her face when the subject of witches are brought up, but her dark moment fades without her causing an incident.

...Except...

"How do  you  know of all this?" Punk points a finger at Hugo, her tone even without any of her previous mirth or later paranoia,  "You didn't answer me when I asked before.  While the way you tell your tale tells  me  you've been therein the past, what knightly quest brought you there?  Diplomacy?  Or was it conquest?"

She doesn't move from her seat, doesn't prepare for the evening's rest.  To her, it seems a line has been drawn, though perhaps not a violent one...yet.
Farmerbink
Falgarra struggles to relax, firmly convinced that some ill-intentioned creature prowls about just out of sight.  As most of the men at arms dismiss her concerns for one reason or another, she props her back against a broad trunk and gazes into the gloom.  " I'm perfectly content to stand watch with your men, Beorhtgār.  Let me know. "

As the seconds tick into minutes, and minutes into hours, she eventually nods off, as simple fatigue and circadian rhythms inexorably draw her consciousness away from the woods.  Her dreams are haunted by phantom calls from neighbors, nephews, and their parents.  Always just out of sight, around some rocky outcropping or behind some gargantuan tree.  Once the voice seemed to bubble up through the ground itself, sending the dream state druid into a fit of digging on hands and knees like a dog with the scent of buried bones....
Palanan
As always, Sir Hugo’s innate good humor helps to calm the moment, as he shows nothing but gentle patience at Punk’s somewhat pointed response, as she insists on knowing how he came by his knowledge of Sparkhaven.

“As for that,” he smiles in the last embers of his fire, “—well, ’twas neither quest nor conquest.  Or rather, no conquest of arms,” and his voice conveys a burr of fond recollection through the dim and chilling night.  “I was there long ago for quite another reason….”  His voice fades away, into an uncommonly wistful silence.

“And she was worth the chase,” Sir Thecelin’s voice puts in drily.

“Oh, forsooth, good Sir,” says Sir Hugo, in a clear imitation of Sir Galeran’s chiding tone.  “Stay thy slanderous tongue!  You’ll have our fellow travelers believing all  manner  of outlandish things about a humble penitent like myself.”

“Whatever else you’re penitent about,” Sir Thecelin rejoins, “I don’t recall it having to do with her.”

“Stay  all  your tongues,” comes Sir Guichard’s low growl, like a beast in the dark, “or I’ll have you cleaning the stables at Chantemerle with paintbrushes.  That goes for all of you.”

The muffled chuckles and low wit of the gathered men are quieted now, as much as can be, and the company prepares themselves for sleep and an early rising.
Palanan
 
 Spoiler: OOC for All Players 
So, could everyone please give me a Perception check.  Mu ha.



Also, if everyone could post just a brief note in the Discord OOC thread, that would really help DM and players keep in touch.  Please let me know if you’ve received my Discord invite and whether it worked for you.
 
Palanan
Falgarra wakes with a silent start, braced against the comforting presence of a wide oaken-trunk.

Sir Thecelin is crouched motionless beside her, staring into the dark far beyond the feeble afterglow of their fires’ last embers.   Do you see it , he barely whispers.

In the chiaoscuro shadow-world of her darksight, Falgarra makes out the great trunks and low branches like endless cathedral-arches receding into the utternight of the Ashenwood, a primordial darkness in which a pale, rippling veil of something other than pure night is briefly glimpsed, far and deep through the silent wood.

Even as she catches the distant gleam—no true light, more a teasing echo of half-seen luminance—she hears a thin cry like a ghostly possum, and an answering growl, and in that merest hint of un-night, indistinct shapes shift and dance and spin.

Buck has also come awake, and he too is just able to perceive a far-distant wavering, like a half-dreamt memory of almost-light.  His eyes, not as keen as Falgarra’s, can only just perceive the shimmering shadow, and he sees no shapes within.

Punk awakens partway on some instinct, catches the scent of smoky embers and men sleeping rough, and considers returning to slumber.
Farmerbink
Falgarra's eyes snap open, though her body remains still- perhaps some lingering vestige of her scampish youth.   " Aye, "  she breathes more than whispers.  She watches with the half-Elf in silence, allowing her eyes to enter that medium state of unfocus to better track distant broad movements.   " It remains first watch? "  she whispers back.

 
 Spoiler: OOC 
Unless or until the distant(?) figures approach much more closely, Falgarra will simply continue to watch.
 
Chromascope3D
Buck tries to make out what the other two see, but unable to glean anything from the darkness, elects to keep silent and wait.
tonberryking
"I guess that gargantuan horse of yours isn't the only stud, here," Punk says of Hugo, shaking her head with bemusement as she heads off. At the least, that was one of the few answer Hugo could have (implied to have) given her that she wouldn't grow angry about, but she's more concerned now with her sleep...

...Which is ultimately disturbed scant hours later.  Punk was never a heavy sleeper outdoors, exactly, but instinct takes over and with hammer in hand she gets up and walks back and forth for a moment, hoping she doesn't see anything that might require her to stay awake.

 
 Spoiler: OOC/rolls 

Another perception:

 (1d20)[ 8 ] 
 
Palanan
 Not yet midnight , Sir Thecelin breathes in response to Falgarra’s question.  Even as she watches intently, the distant shimmer becomes the merest hint of a wan green glow, then fades like an ethereal afterimage.

By the time Punk is shown the direction in which it had briefly glimmered, there is nothing to see but the darkness once more.

“Demons,” murmurs one of the men from beside a feebly glowing fire.  “Forest-demons, waiting for us.  None of us will make it to the morning.”  He sounds oddly cheerful at this prospect.

“Maybe it’s fey,” suggests Jeanne.

“You want some pixie dust on your morning pancakes?” another smirks from the dark.

“That’ll be enough,” Sir Guichard cuts through their comments.  “Quiet and sleep.”
Farmerbink
The usually light-hearted Falgarra scowls almost imperceptibly in the darkness.  She makes no vocal comment, but eyes the distant canopy, deeply shrouded in night.    What are we doing out here?   she wonders, mouthing a silent to prayer to the gods of her ancestors and the woods.
Palanan
There is no pixie dust on anyone’s pancakes the following morning.  Most of the company wakes early, in accordance with their schedule of travel these many weeks; but they wake into a dim charcoal world, merest hints of great trunks and heavy low branches all around.

Somewhere far to the east of them on the Ride, the dawn is reaching out from behind the Beanntan Àrda, breathing across the mists of the Abhainn Mhòr; but all the Ashenwood is shrouded deep in the shadow of the Ülgurül Hills, and here beneath the smothering masses of leaves no hint of sun is seen.

The morning meal is subdued, but not morose; over their pancakes the men are quiet but in good humor, determined to make a respectable passage through the forest, the sooner to be out from its eaves and into the broad fields and open skies of the Baronies proper.  This will only the be first of a number of full days following the westbound path through the Ashenwood; but while the company remains a military expedition, Sir Guichard does not hurry them overmuch through their meal.

But once the pans are rinsed and stowed, the small fires doused and smoking, Sir Guichard issues the familiar orders with a crisp edge, and the company decamps with the casual ease of long experience.  Each of the knights is garbed in mail—not the fine armor of crusaders that one might expect, worked of rare alloys and laid with enchantments; but rather plain and battered mail, the same that any footman might wear.  Indeed some of the crossbowmen have better mail themselves, and Jeanne de Marrolles has perhaps the finest of all, the men of the company making certain that the best found its way to her.

As Sir Hugo heaves himself up onto Clarion, and Sir Thecelin smoothly mounts Windlithe, Sir Guichard takes young Sir Winston aside.  “First task of the day,” the older knight informs the southerner.  “Take a couple others, maybe this one—” he juts his chin minutely in Punk’s direction— “and go find what you can of those creatures fighting last night.  If they have our scent I want to know what manner of beasts are following us.”

Turning, he calls low and quietly to Falgarra.  “You seem wood-wise.  Can you track such beasts?”
Chromascope3D
Buck finishes braiding his golden hair as he offers some acclaim for the pancakes, "I think I shall miss the sun these next weeks, but these pastries will certainly make the going along much easier."

Using the dregs of the fire, he repeats the brewing process that he had attempted the night prior.

 
 Spoiler: OOC 
Buck will again fill five of his vials with water, and spend five minutes and five charges of divine alchemy to create two potions of Sanctuary and three potions of Cure Light Wounds.

Also, when he prepares his spells he'll replace Divine Favor with Bless. I imagine that happens before the prior action. :p
 
tonberryking
Punk grumbles something in orcish before dragging herself and her hammer back to bed.

She grumbles something in orcish in the morning, too, though whether or not her choice words are in response to the way Guichard refers to her remains unknown.

If she actually is asked to investigate, she will ultimately ask what's to be done if they find anything and whether to prioritize alerting the knights or investigating further before tromping off (oddly silently) and into the wilds to look for clues.

 
 Spoiler: OOC/rolls 


Can't imagine this will go spectacularly well, but they hired Punk for SOMETHING other than fighting, I guess.  Survival and perception to find tracks or notice things and otherwise get ideas of what happened:

Survival: (1d20+4)[ 17 ] 
Perception:  (1d20)[ 20 ] 
 
Farmerbink
Falgarra nods stoically.  " Don't much matter what it was, most everything leaves footprints, " she responds.  Eager to both be of use and find any clue that might help lead her to the missing youngsters, the matronly Dwarf heads out cautiously without precisely being told so.  " Give me a minute and some room; just wouldn't do to muss up the tracks 'cuz ya didn't know what you were lookin' for. "

She prowls quietly into the mists, not out of any effort to remain unnoticed as much as her focus on the task at hand.  She creeps slowly through the undergrowth, towards where she saw the eyes and movement the night before.  Careful to check thoroughly where her next footfall will land before taking each step, her eyes scan the herbs and bushes along with what she hopes is soft ground nearby.

 
 Spoiler: OOC 
So sorry for the delay.  It was a good vacation with family, but as always involves a lot of recover time XD

Survival to find tracks:  (1d20+9)[ 14 ] 
 
Chromascope3D
Buck hands one of his concoctions off to Punk before tucking the rest into his robes, noting, "Some medicine, if needed. Please hold on to the vial after using it, I only have so many!"

Watching Falgarra creep off into the gloom, he continues to the half-orc, "Well, I can't say I'd be much use myself, but I am curious to see what Madam Falgarra might find on the other side, you?"

 
 Spoiler: ooc 
Buck hands a vial of Cure Light Wounds to Punk. He has two more remaining if anyone wants to take one.
 
Palanan
The dense mantle of fallen leaves, damp from recent rain, extends in gentle undulations beneath the shadow-dark branches, flowing up against stout trunks and around the sunken remnants of fallen snags.  Its slight give absorbs the sound of the travelers’ footsteps—and the heavy layers of leaves feel almost spongy beneath their boots: tracks are hard to come by here.

There is little undergrowth in the grey depths of the wood, so tightly packed the masses of living leaves far above; but the mantle of leaves below is strewn with fallen twigs and branches, occasional contorted limbs rising like twisted, grasping things within the fine mist and early-morning grey.

Falgarra has already moved ahead, and Sir Winston has more sense than to insist on walking ahead of her; and so the four settle into an informal order, with Punk just behind Falgarra, and Buck and Sir Winston a few paces further back.  The crisp damp air, rich with the scent of leaves and mould, is entirely still and almost breathlessly silent, as if they were walking through a series of immense cathedral naves, leading endlessly one to the next, all having been shut away from outside air for an age of the world.

The soft footsteps of the four seem almost loud in that stillness and silence, and as the leaves whisper beneath them, Falgarra feels a hint of worry: they muffle her tread too well for her comfort, and she fears there will be no tracks to be found.

—And abruptly she comes upon, not merely pawprints or scrapes, but great gouges of humid earth and half-decayed leaves in rough fans all around.  To both Falgarra and Punk it is clear that a beast of some weight was twisting and lashing, springing and whirling about, tearing up the spongy mantle as it threw itself into battle with—what?

For no other tracks nor signs are there, no trace of any other creature.

Then—a pale scrap out of place among the earth-gouges and scattered leaves: whether a strip of leaf or hide Falgarra cannot tell, a grayish-green hue like a fleshy lichen, but of a kind she has never seen before.
Farmerbink
The sudden cease of Falgarra's footsteps is enough to alert her companions to the change.  Only a heartbeat later, they too certainly spy the disturbed ground.  Even as they no doubt ponder the scene, the druid closes her eyes and calls upon the spirits of the woods to enhance her vision.  With a strong syllable and a gesture, the fabric of magical reality make themselves known to her.

" Better safe than sorry, " she murmurs, casting her eyes over the area, and lingering for a moment longer on the gray-green piece of material nestled amidst the loamy ground.

 
 Spoiler: OOC 
Gonna detect magic before Falgarra grabs the thing to inspect it.  Assuming it's reasonably safe and applicable, she will do exactly that.
 (1d20+2)[ 21 ]  nature (or +0 for anything else)
 
Palanan
 
 Spoiler: Falgarra 
To Falgarra’s newly sensitive eyes, the narrow scrap is enveloped in a thin, teasing halo of magical energy, like the moon on a hazy night.  It is not by any means an active enchantment, but rather the lingering echo of some prior magic.

Closer consideration bears out her first impression—it seems to be flesh or hide, but infused with lichen-like growth, some of which emerges from the scrap in thin tendrils, as if they had grown in place of hairs or fur.
 
Farmerbink
Falgarra frowns.  " It's not normal, though I suppose most of us coulda seen as much.  Can't rightly make out the details, but it doesn't seem to be immediately dangerous, either... "  The matronly Dwarf retrieves the strange... skin?  fabric?  and runs her thumbs over it gently as she mostly resumes looking elsewhere.  " If anyone else wants to look it over, be my guest, " she offers, warily.
Chromascope3D
Buck frowns as he leans down to get a closer look, and begins to reach to take it, but quickly withdraws his hand. Shaking his head, he chuckles, "I can't say I'd know any more about it than you, Madam. Looks rather nasty though!"
tonberryking
Punk narrows her eyes to slits at the sight of the skin fur, and the state of the "battle ground."  One creature was clearly losing a battle but no trace of the winner?

That can't be right.  Not unless a bear fought a ghost or something outrageous like that.  Which means...

Punk looks up.  Yup, the trees are still there.  Trying to pick a tree that's as close to hanging over the deepest gouges of the earth, she digs her nails into the bark and starts scrambling up.

 
 Spoiler: OOC/rolls 

Climb:  (1d20+6)[ 20 ] 
Perception:  (1d20)[ 7 ] 
 
Palanan
With a startling agility for all her bulk, Punk swarms up the tree-trunk and fairly hurls herself upward through the branches, boles and countless leaves.

Many of the latter shower gently down in the wake of her passage, along with a handful of small spiders and inchworms.  Between the whispering patter of leaves on the forest floor, the rustling of twigs and the webs and detritus in her eyes, Punk neither hears nor sees anything beyond the leafy heights in which she now perches.
tonberryking
"Nothing up here."

Punk's voice holds a tinge of disappointment for her lack of discovery while the branches holding her sway and move with her voice, "Makes me suspicious; what in balls could have been fighting here if it leaves no trace? A damn ghost?  Maybe something that can fly?"
Chromascope3D
"Perhaps it was a serpent? They don't leave footprints..." Buck muses. He clicks his tongue, to which his viper snakes down his robe and onto the forest floor. Crawling to the disturbed ground, she stops and flits her tongue out a number of times.

Kneeling, Buck asks the snake, "What say you, Elly? Beast, man, or ghost?"

 
 Spoiler: OOC 
Survival to see if Eolas can find any tracks by scent:  (1d20+1)[ 11 ] 
Nature to see if Eolas can remember any similar descriptions to animals or forest spirits:  (1d20+2)[ 14 ] 
 
Farmerbink
      
 Falgarra frowns thoughtfully as her allies explore other possibilities.  " No footprints, but plain as day tracks, most often, " she mutters.  " Could be some kinda bird, but...  big darned bird to tear up the earth like this.... We'd have heard wingbeats from the camp.... "

Her frown deepens as they systematically remove all the "normal" explanations.  " Don't much like any of this, " she admits, after a time. 
 
  
Palanan
As Buck kneels, examining the gouged earth, Eolas scents carefully, and an impression is formed:

 
 Spoiler: Buck 
 Unnatural beast, stinking of mold and dank growth .

But Eolas has no idea what it might be.
 



As Falgarra admits she doesn’t like any of it, Sir Winston nods.

“Nor I,” he allows; “—but I don’t think we’ll find more here, and I don’t want the company to get too far ahead.  Let’s be on our way, but keep eyes open for anything more.”

Glancing at the viper, he adds, “And…tongues?” before turning back to retrace their steps.
Chromascope3D
"Aye," Buck nods, golden eyes staring out dreamily, "Keep a sharp eye, Madame Elly smells a rotten, fell beast who was hereabouts. I would hate to stumble into it's lair..."
tonberryking
Punk slides down the truck of the tree she climbs and takes up the rear following the others, keeping her eyes open, and both hands on her hammer.

"What bothers me is why didn't this "whatever it was" just come attack  us  last night? Think it was afraid of our fires? S'only thing I can think of that kept it away from a few easy targets, man or horse.  Maybe we should get some torches ready; it wouldn't be the first time I whomped on someone with something that was lit up..."
Farmerbink
      
 Falgarra grunts.  " We're no easy prey, " she murmurs.  " Some dozen and a half knights with a handful more odd but decently-armed companions?  It'd be a mighty beast indeed to try us without much encouragement.  Most  animals  won't start a fight they're not sure they can win- unless they're well and truly desperate.  Don't figure more intelligent predators are likely to try it any more lightly. "  She lapses into a brief silence, trodding carefully back to the rest of the company.

" Still, it's important to stay together and be careful.  One isolated knight or beast could well turn into a meal, " she mutters unhappily. 
 
  
Palanan
Young Sir Winston leads the others back through the grey silence of the early morning, retracing their steps as best they can towards the company, or where it had been when they set out.

Even though the travelers have walked, at most, a long crossbow-shot from the company’s camp—or what would have been a crossbow-shot in open country—the heavy grey trunks and low branches seem to be little more than darkened, twisted wraiths of fog, almost melting into the chill and humid air.

Were it not for the two bowmen waiting for them, the travelers might have missed the spot altogether, might have missed their path west and continued wandering in the damp and the grey.  Perhaps they too might have begun to dissolve into contorted shapes; and as they follow the two bowmen, making long strides towards the rearguard of the company ahead, the air itself seems to dissolve into a fine and smothering mist.

Again the absence of the voices of birds, the ethereal fiddlings of tiny crickets; and too the shadowed lack of any pale shaft of sunlight through the indistinct dark masses of leaves and canopy above.  As the six catch up to the rest of the company, the mist begins falling more purposefully, with pattering-drops sounding softly on the damp mantle of leaves all around, accentuating the tread and rustle of boots, the muffled press and squelch of horseshoes.

As the company makes its slow way through the grey drizzle and misting-gloom, even Sir Hugo’s customary good humor gives way to a pensive quiet.  Well past him, at the head of the column, Sir Guichard rides tautly alert on Eluïndar, with Sir Galeran behind on Starcrest.

Sir Guichard has ordered a looser spacing for the bowmen as they walk; and he has also asked young Sir Winston to keep his traveling companions on rearguard watch, against the possibility that something might yet be following them.

Thus in silence for hour after grey and drizzling hour; and following a brief standing meal, chill and cheerless, thus in silence they continue, into what they assume is early afternoon, following the muddy path into the deeper grey ahead.


 
 Spoiler: OOC 
Anyone who’s willing can give me two (2) Perception checks.
 
Palanan
In mid-afternoon, chill and grey with a steady wet pattering all around, Falgarra pauses once again to look behind—and for a brief moment there is a hint of an irregular shape far in the distance, as if a slightly damper, faintly darker patch were shambling amid the indistinct drizzling haze.

For his part, Buck sees nothing through his rain-slicked hair; but Eolas rises up, tongue flicking attentively.
tonberryking
Punk is not pleased.

The mildly inclement weather doesn't bother her; she's trudged and even hidden through worse.  But what does get to her is that this feels all wrong, like they were collectively losing a high stakes game of hide and seek.  She's growing more volatile; Punk definitely wants to break up any game that's being played on them.

 "I think we should do something.  But I can't think of what that something is without sending one of us dopes ahead, but then there might not be anymore dope afterward.  ...And I'm volunteering to be that dope."
Palanan
Young Sir Winston looks uncomfortable at this.

“I…don’t think we should try going ahead,” he allows.  “The knights are in the van of the company—and Sir Guichard himself wanted us to keep a watch behind.”  For Sir Winston, this seems as if it should settle the matter.
Farmerbink
      
 Falgarra stops suddenly, almost causing Punk to stumble into the matronly Dwarf.  " Oy, sorry, " she grunts, stepping aside.  Casting her eyes once more to the rear, she scowls, trying to find what she would have sworn she saw a heartbeat earlier.  Her eyes wander to the loamy earth, the footsteps of her party plainly visible in the soft soil quite a ways to the rear.

" Anybody else see...? "  She doesn't quite finish the sentence, as she doesn't know what words to use to explain what she saw.  Instead, she casts her eyes to the trees, pondering their vast trunks, hoping against hope for a stray shoot spreading nearer to the ground.

 
 Spoiler: OOC 
The short version is that if your ruling is that Falgarra thinks it might work, she'll warn her companions and cast  entangle  in an effort to  entangle  (mechanically) the...  thing. 
 
 
 
  
Palanan
 
 Spoiler: Falgarra 
Living so close to the Ashenwood, many strange stories have made their way up the slopes to Falgarra’s settlement—tales of strange creatures, peculiar happenings, things which ought not to be.

She has never heard that spells work  differently  in the Ashenwood—at least, not in the outer fringes, where it’s comparatively safe to visit—but she has heard that at times, the Wood itself… remembers  what is cast; and at times…takes exception.
 
Chromascope3D
Buck looks inquisitively at the dwarf, before following her gaze off into the rainy gloam. He shakes his head as he scratches his viper's chin, replying, "I can't see much of anything, but something seems to have Elly on edge."
Farmerbink
      
 Falgarra glares into the distance, visibly agitated.  For several seconds she ponders uncomfortably the trees, the vision, the whole situation.

After quite a few long, strained breaths, she lets out an irritated snort.  "Leave it," she barks.  "We're being followed, but there's nothing to do for it, yet."  She raises her eyes in a begrudging glance of respect for the leafy sentinels overhead.  "Be careful.  We don't want to cause offense, but it's a risky game we're playing in here."

She turns away, still grimacing.  "Our rear watches especially need to stay vigilant.  Can we spare three men dedicated to it, even during travel?  If whatever that was comes close, we'll have to defend ourselves.  In the meantime, it may well be a servant of the Ashenwood, herself.  Without knowing more, it's just madness to risk picking a fight with the whole forest." 
 
  
Palanan
Sir Winston looks uncomfortable, glancing ahead to where the most of the company is walking, or rather squelching, some dozens of feet ahead.

“I…think we  are  the rearguard,” he ventures awkwardly.  “But you can bring it up with Sir Guichard when we camp tonight.  I’m sure....”  But he trails off.  He doesn’t seem eager to be the one to mention it.
Farmerbink
      
 "I will," Falgarra grunts, eager to at least appear cooperative.  "I don't like it any more than you, but I think we'll fare better in the long term if we err on the side of being..."  she glances once more at the thick canopy, far overhead, struggling to find the right words.  "If we go out of our way to not bess with the Wood any more than we have to," she finally finishes, with a grimace.

With another glance to the rear, especially off to the flanks where a follower might be hiding behind a tree trunk, she raises a lip in a silent snarl.  "In fact, I'll stay back here, myself," she mutters.

As the company continues trudging deeper into the woods, Falgarra stays abreast of the last person in the marching order.  More used to traversing the uneven terrain, she easily keeps up with the armored figure, with plenty of time for frequent glances to the rear and whispers of encouragement and entreaty to the surrounding trees. 
 
  
Palanan
So the company continues on the westward path, all that grey afternoon: the knights not in fine armor with gleaming emblems worked into their shields, their steeds not brightly caparisoned with rich cloth and golden bells.  Rather the knights, to a stranger’s eye, would seem no more than weary riders in damp charcoal traveling-cloaks, their armor basic and battleworn, their boots and riding-gloves shabby and coming apart.  Only their mounts would seem uncommonly fine and strong; but even the horses feel the weight of the endless misting-grey, and the indistinct stormclouds of the half-seen canopy, spreading somewhere far above them.

For much of their homeward journey, the knights’ squires would have ridden behind them; but they have been given the honor and obligation of riding swiftly ahead, trusting to speed and stealth to arrive first at Chantemerle to formally deliver the doleful news, and to give young Droco’s widow time to compose herself ere the knights arrive.  Only one squire now remains—the young man recently pledged to serve Beorhtgār, who rides beside the doughty dwarf in overawed silence.

Thus immediately behind the knights walk the men in pairs: first are four retainers of Chantemerle, senior men-at-arms who at times command small units in battle, either at the direction of the knights or on their own initiative.  Behind them walks a very small company of archers—as it happens, only four surviving out of the original company of twenty longbowmen who set out three years ago.

Following these, somewhat loosely arrayed as they walk double-file, are eight men-at-arms, some bearing crossbows and others spears or war-axes.  Among them is Jeanne de Marrolles, who for much of her time on crusade kept her hair short beneath her helm; but now, so close to home, it forms a ragged fringe over her neck, and she has bound some of it into a short tail, anticipating the day when it grows long enough to braid again.

This then is the company which has been traveling west for so many weeks, and behind which walks the ad hoc rearguard—the young Sir Winston, the travelers Buck and Punk, and the company’s most recent addition, the dwarven matron Falgarra.


 ⚜ ⚜ ⚜ 

Once or twice Falgarra thinks she can just glimpse the distant shape again; but as the afternoon dims, and an early evening draws in all around, any trace of the thing is lost in the swiftly-settling gloom.

“I think our dwarves scared it off,” says one of the crossbowmen over a meal of cold bread and cheese.  “The big scary musclebound one, and also Sir Beorhtgār.”

There is a bit of chuckling at this, but Sir Guichard cuts it off with a hard look across the scatter of feeble camp-fires.  “Our dwarven  allies ,” he emphasizes, “may well have been the deciding factor in keeping our march untroubled today.  Let’s hope,” with a brief nod to Beorhtgār, “they may do so again on the morrow.”

Later, as the fires are dwindling in the humid dark, Sir Guichard makes a final round through the camp, and pauses a moment to crouch beside Falgarra and Sir Winston.  “Well done today,” he allows quietly.  “I’d like the four of you on rearguard from now on.  You’re good at it—and we need you there.”

With that he rises, continues on, and with little need for urging the company prepares for another chill, damp night within the watchful dark.
Chromascope3D
Buck beams at the knight, answering, "Ah, I appreciate that, it would be my honor!"

He rubs his pale hands together before the fire as he settles in, and muses aloud, "Well, that's one day down. How many more lie before us?"
Farmerbink
      
  Falgarra  prowls through the soft, wet woods like a nervous cat.  Ever convinced that they're being watched, unhappy about it, and unsure what to do about it, her eyes warily range about as the minutes drag slowly into hours- seemingly days.

Gnawing away contentedly, if not precisely happily, Falgarra snorts briefly at the crossbowman's remark.  Unable to keep a fierce smile from her lips, she favors him with an awkward-but amused- flex of her well-formed arms.  "I'd like to share your optimism," she murmurs, as the reality of his words sinks in.  She nods appreciatively to Sir Guichard, though it seems obvious she didn't mind the jibe.  "Of course.  I'm not eager to traipse about entirely alone," she responds with a smirk of her own.

As the camp settles in, Falgarra nods to Sir Guichard.  "Happy to help.  It's good for all of us if we can find mutual respect with the woods again."  Again, her eyes stray to the rapidly darkening gloom.  Ultimately she's forced to admit she can't personally stay on watch until they traverse the entire woods, and with a quietly-whispered, hopeful prayer for her companion's diligence and safety, so lays down to rest. 
 
  
Palanan
A long silence follows Buck’s question.  The squelching sameness of the day’s long march, the misting-grey shadows and ceaseless chill drizzle have sapped the company’s mood, even as they lessen the miles between themselves and the open skies beyond the western eaves of the Ashenwood.

“A week, maybe?” ventures a voice from one of the small fires; but the voice is uncertain, and none other follows it.  The Ashenwood had seemed broad but not impassable when first they spied it from the Ülgurül Hills; yet the damp silence has left many of the company feeling smothered and weary.

And thus the shadows deepen about the scattered and struggling fires, and on quiet bobcat-paws the night settles near, and watches.


 
 Spoiler 
Everyone can give me a Perception check, please.
 
Chromascope3D
"Well, only six more miserable days ahead of us, then!" Buck muses as he fruitlessly attempts to dry his robes by the equally miserable fire.

 
 Spoiler: ooc 
Buck Perception:  (1d20+6)[ 25 ] 
Eolas Perception:  (1d20+9)[ 18 ] 
 
Zhentarim
 
 Spoiler: perception check 
 (1d20-2)[ 13 ] 
 


Sylvester emerges from the bush, weapon in hand. He's been trekking through this forest for days. He's thirsty, dirty, and tired. He is glad to see signs of intelligent life but questions if this is the work of the hag who took his boyfriend.

 "Who goes there?" 
Palanan
Buck and Falgarra, both wary of the settling dark, have been keeping a careful watch on the dim shapes of the trees.  Thus they are well aware of the figure as it stumbles out of the deepening gloom—a young man by the look of him, perhaps not best suited for a long foray into a great forest, but with an air of determination despite his weariness.

“Who goes there your-bloody-self?” demands one of the crossbowmen on watch; and Sir Thecelin moves like a graceful zephyr to stand at the edge of the firelight, his lean features in shadow and one hand casually at his waist, inches from his sword-hilt.
Zhentarim
 "Have either of you seen a hag in these parts? I've been wandering these woods a long time looking for the man I love. A hag took him. I came back for him but I got lost." 

Sylvester sits on a fallen log to drink some water from his water bladder, and to rest his weary feet. The bugs have bitten every piece of his exposed skin. He sheathes his shortsword for now.
Chromascope3D
"A hag...?" Buck reiterates before answering, "I don't believe so, at least, not that we are aware of. There have been some strange happenings in these woods since we have been here, but we have not laid eyes on their source. We did find some strange, unearthly pelt, though not one that we could identify. Perhaps it could belong to the had you are seeking?"

Buck retrieves the skin sample and shows it to the newcomer.
Palanan
“Hold a moment,” Sir Thecelin says to Buck, easily but firmly.  “Name yourself, traveler—” this to the haggard stranger— “and from whence you hail, and then we’ll discuss what we’ve seen.”

Behind him, others of the company are rousing themselves, bending their bows and fitting arrows to their strings.
Farmerbink
      
  Falgarra  eyes the lone traveler, immediately put on edge by this person's sudden appearance- alone, in the depths of the Ashenwood.  "I've seen no hag, but I don't trust she'd make it obvious if I had," she grumbles.

As Sir Thecelin takes to the fore, demanding a name, Falgarra just watches, relaxing somewhat.  For the moment, she carries her axe low as she usually does, but her body posture is one of curiosity more than suspicion. 
 
  
Zhentarim
The haggard man takes a bow, smiles as warmly as he can despite the clear exhaustion in his eyes, and says  "I'm Sylvester Scribesword, an archivist. Much to my family's chagrin, I am somebody unable to provide them an heir, so as their only child, I'm also the last member of the Scribesword house. I am interested in men, so I won't have any children of my own. My family saw this as a reason to cut me off from any inheritance. I love my boyfriend, though, and he and I were exploring these woods together when a hag took him. His name's Tristian Truth. It's my mission to find him."  
Palanan
Sir Thecelin listens to the young man's long and personal declamation, evidently unsure how to respond.  “That’s…a great deal to share at once.”

He seems on the verge of saying more; but Sir Guichard is stalking up to stand beside the half-elven knight, his compact frame taut with command.  “I hight Sir Guichard, bound for Chantemerle.  You’ll be wanting passage, I take it.  Do you have any skills, besides somehow surviving this place alone?”
Zhentarim
 
 Originally Posted by Palanan 
 Sir Thecelin listens to the young man's long and personal declamation, evidently unsure how to respond.  “That’s…a great deal to share at once.”

He seems on the verge of saying more; but Sir Guichard is stalking up to stand beside the half-elven knight, his compact frame taut with command.  “I hight Sir Guichard, bound for Chantemerle.  You’ll be wanting passage, I take it.  Do you have any skills, besides somehow surviving this place alone?” 
 

 
 Spoiler: ooc 
sorry to overshare, ha... i spill my guts with strangers irl though sometimes, so its not that weird to me
 


Sylvester smiles "Indeed. I am well-versed in multiple languages, areas of study, spellcraft, and identifying magic items. I also know some basic healing magic."
Palanan
Sir Guichard listens with a hard-edged stare, allowing a slight lift of an eyebrow at Sylvester’s last words.  “Healing we can use.  We should be some days yet on the westward path; you’re welcome to share our march, and our fires, if you’ll contribute when we have the need.”

He gives a curt nod and steps away, glancing at Falgarra with a look that plainly says,  One of you lot now .
Chromascope3D
Buck grins at this, declaring, "Ah, how grand! A fellow scholar! I'll be happy to pick your brain later, but come, have a seat and rest!"
Palanan
Once the new arrival is seated at a fire, the company settles down to another damp, dripping evening, the fizzling flames little brighter than candles against the immensity of utter darkness all around.


 
 Spoiler 
Everyone can give me two (2) Perception checks.
 
Chromascope3D
Buck, hunched over, records the day's events in his journal, while attempting to shield the book from the worst of the evening's damp.
 
 Spoiler: OOC 
Buck Perception 1  (1d20+6)[ 23 ] 
Buck Perception 2  (1d20+6)[ 23 ] 

Eolas Perception 1  (1d20+9)[ 11 ] 
Eolas Perception 2  (1d20+9)[ 19 ] 
 
Zhentarim
 
 Spoiler: Perception (and contingent action based on passed check) 

 (1d20-2)[ 7 ] 
 (1d20-2)[ 2 ] 

If I notice something, I cast the 0-level cantrip "Detect Magic" in that direction.
 


While sitting around the fire, Sylvester asks "So, what brings each of you into these cursed woods?"
Farmerbink
      
  Falgarra  continues to eye the newcomer uncomfortably.  Distinctly familiar with the Woods, and unwilling to traverse them alone, she struggles to reconcile completely agreeing with the young man's preference for company and her own suspicion of his presence at all.  Unable to satisfy her own concerns, she instead lapses into an uneasy silence, gently prodding the fire with a damp stick.

 
 Spoiler: Perceptions 
from OOC: modified  14  and  9.   So ends the streak of observation.
 
 
 
  
Palanan
“They’re not so bad, I think.”  This from Sir Winston, attired as a knight, but who seems extremely young to have taken crusading vows.  “Only a bit damp, and we’ve had more rain than this in the Ülgurül Hills just a few days past.

“For my part—” he jogs the struggling flames with a damp twig— “I’m sworn to this company until they reach Chantemerle, and then I expect I’ll join Sir Beorhtgār as he raises a new company to return to the mountains in the east.  The Crusade is far from won, and the Sceathalings still hold the vales of the Seofonēas, so there I must return to continue the fight.”
Chromascope3D
"We're also just passing through, my companion and I," The blonde elf nods to the rough-and-tumble half-orc, "Tracking the legend of a lost city far to the west of here."

He smiles, "You can call me Buck, and if you see a serpent slithering about, know that she is also my companion. She won't bite.
Palanan
“Oh gods, —it got me!” comes a voice from the next fire.  “I’m dying—!  Heed my last words!  …Whatever you do…don’t…touch…the…serpent….”

A bit of theatrical choking and gagging follows, until Sir Guichard barks for the unfortunate victim to shut it and get to sleep.
tonberryking
Punk seems... indifferent to the newcomer, and while she prefers her own gender the same way he apparently does, she at least respects the earnest bravado of his claims.  However...

"If you're looking for your missing lover, why stick around with us? We're traveling to get OUT of the woods."

But she's been on edge for far too long because of the damning silence and inability to figure out if they're being spied upon, so her unusually curt attitude may be due to her constant alert state.

 
 Spoiler: OOC/rolls 

 (1d20)[ 1 ] 
 (1d20)[ 2 ] 
 
Zhentarim
"I am hoping that you all are willing to help me find him. I got lost in these woods and only found your group by dumb luck."
Farmerbink
      
  Falgarra  looks up, still struggling with her suspicious tendencies.  Her eyes narrow at some kept-concealed thought, and she frowns thoughtfully.  "As long as that hag you mentioned doesn't show up with him," she grunts.

"What sort of fellow is this man that you seek?  An outdoorsman?  Seems odd to choose this place to explore and odder still to run into a hag and live to tell newfound strangers around a fire." 
 
  
tonberryking
Punk glances at Falgarra, the gears in her head slowly turning.

"Hey, yeah," she turns back to Sylvester, "How the bloody hell do you know it's a Hag-hag?  Are you sure it's one of those and not like some really disturbed old crank with magic powers, because while I have only fought the latter on occasion, I know there's a huge difference."
Zhentarim
"I believe Tristian was taken by a hag. She approached us while we were exploring the woods in the form of a conventionally attractive woman. She tried to seduce us but she failed because Tristian and I are only attracted to men. Then she turned into a hideous green-skinned monster and stole him away. I don't know why she didn't take both of us."
Palanan
As the dripping in the darkness gradually becomes a light pattering, the fires fizzle down to barely a ruddy glow, and the travelers wrap themselves in their cloaks and blankets, keeping out what little of the chill and rain they can.

And Buck, sensing a momentary alertness from Eolas, angles his neck to peer out into the unrelenting night—and for an instant he thinks he can glimpse an eerie hint of a gleam, the slightest tease of an afterimage far away through the unseen trees.


 
 Spoiler: Everyone... 
Everyone can give me one more Perception check.
 
Zhentarim
 
 Spoiler: Perception check (with 7 wis)... 

 (1d20-2)[ 5 ] 

Sylvester woke up early this morning to read through his notes he has taken. He is a true academic.
 
Chromascope3D
Buck narrows his eyes as he stares off into the gloom, muttering, "This forest is starting to wear my nerves, surely."

 
 Spoiler: OOC 
Buck Perception:  (1d20+6)[ 25 ] 
Eolas Perception:  (1d20+9)[ 22 ] 
 
Farmerbink
      
 A bit rebuffed, but apparently satisfied with the explanation,  Falgarra  begins making her way toward what counts for bed in the dank forest floor deep beneath the oppressive canopy above.

She sleeps fitfully, unsure what to make of the newfound companion and increasingly unconfident in the likeliness of finding any of the missing youngsters.  When Buck stirs briefly, it takes no more distraction to prompt a few moments of focus from the insomniac matron.

 
 Spoiler: OOC  
Perception of  23  rolled OOC
 
 
 
  