Between the saddlebags of their mighty mounts and the magical containers many of them possessed, it proved a simple enough matter to carry along two and a half weeks of food and feed.<br/><br/>For the rest of that day, they made a hard but steady pace through woods still untouched by the cursed mist.  Though a mortal man might find the forests daunting and primeval, to elven eyes much of the region was tamed—even cultivated.  The road they road down was a wide patch of short grass.  Normally such elf-trails showed little sign of passage, but with thousands upon thousands of refugees making their way to the capitol, the grass was trampled badly, muddy and slick in places, brown and wilted in a few others, still healthy and sturdy in more.  They passed subtly grown houses and watchtowers high in the boughs of trees.  Beans and squash, or berry bushes rounded those trees.  More than one seemingly wild patch of forest would be shown on closer inspection to be an orchard, a pecan grove, or simply a crowded with an abundance of honey bees or fat, lazy locust easily snatched up for a light snack.  Birds snag, then quite, then sang again as they past.  Squirrels chattered and scolded.  Most of the larger game had bounded away, though on one opportunity a few great spiders eyed them hungrily only to scuttle away when the elves bent back their bows.<br/><br/>Rounding one bend, a pack of great yellow-brown hounds watched them from up ahead.  Jamatheil's eyes widened as he recognized the noble and powerfully magical beasts.  “Phase hounds,” eh whispered.   “I...” he looked about, “I could never master their language, and they can't articulate ours.  Can anyone...?”<br/><br/>The largest of the pack stalked forwards along with a sleek female with silky, cream colored fur.  The second gave out a series of complicated barks and growls, then, having attempted to deliver their message, they all vanished in a flicker of light and shadow.<br/><br/>That night, they reached a village on the River of Shields.  Looking across its great silver length, they beheld the ebon mist rolling out against the river to be pushed back by an unseen force.<br/><br/><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Nyss</div><div class="spoiler_body">   Nys could explain that the River of Shields is a natural ley-line, a place where the world's ambient magic flows regularly through the world.  The ancient magi who gave it it's name have anchored powerful wards against supernatural evil in these shields.  It is very difficult for undead, fiends from the Abyss or Nine Hells, or profane magic to cross while the river flows strong.  <br/><br/>   But in times of drought, or when a mud flow clogs the river, or otherwise something impedes the steady motion of the water, the wards can temporarily weaken.</div></div><br/><br/>That night, the party took shelter in the high boughs of the trees, in a great meeting hall grown from the living wood of a vast oak.  With the river of shields protecting them, 90 feet off of the ground, with few entrances, they decided they could comfortably set single watches, ensuring that everyone got plenty of rest. Their mounts pawed the ground nervously on the right side of the meeting house—still uncomfortable from being winched up into the shelter with a cunning machine Reliat found after scaling the tree.<br/><br/>