The jingling was a guide to another traveler - one that kept to the shadows of the enchanted trees, for he had lived among them most of his life.  The bard's music had drawn him near to one of the overnight camps, although he had been careful not to get too close.  Swords and arrows did not make for his type of greeting.<br/><br/>At first, he kept out of all possible sight, staying low and only occasionally lifting his head above the thickets.  Even then, his coloration would have made it difficult to spot him unless torchlight fell directly on his dark skin and awakened its oil-slick sheen of color.  He had been following the caravan for a day and a half, now, mostly from curiosity, but with a growing desire to see what lay beyond his sylvan sanctuary.<br/><br/>If only they were not so different...<br/><br/>As he drew nearer to the path, he could get a better look at the members of the caravan.  Legs like so, claws - no, fingers like so...  They shielded their skin from each other - a problem, but one that had a temporary solution until he could think of a better one.  Muscles and tendons shifted and realigned as he concentrated, and soon a stranger stepped onto the path near the end of the column.  A raven-feathered cloak covered him from shoulder to shin.  The breeze caused maybe just a little too much movement in the fine, dark hair that formed a shaggy mop down to his shoulders.  His fingernails were a bit too long for most - outside of eccentric royalty - but the one potentially damning factor was the skin that had remained unchanged through the transformation: jet black in the twilight of the forest.