6 hours before the goblin attack, several miles northeast of Melford<br/><br/>A figure stops in the trees. Sleeves are rolled to his elbows on a woolen chemise they may have once been white, peeking out from beneath a heavy dark brown jack studded with tarnished brass rivets. A cloak is rolled and slung around his body along with a quiver and an unstrung bow. He holds up a gloved hand and his companion stops several feet behind.<br/><br/>He glances back at the dusky maiden in her mail reinforced with exquisitely decorated plates. Looking at her, he places a finger to his mouth, then to his ear, and finally twirls it in the air in a small circle to express all around them. The air is still, no sound of bird or beast. He cocks his ears again and holds up his palm and three fingers, signaling her to wait a few moments before following. He moves almost silently, more than she might expect knowing each rivet on his jack holds reinforcing plates similar to those on her mail.<br/><br/>They left out of Melford the day before yesterday, after the most recent assault of the fortnight. He meant to find the creatures behind the attack rather than wait for them in the town. His companion, one the town’s guard, volunteered to accompany him. He’s not sure which of them is more pleased her superiors allowed it. If he were honest with himself, he hated this life constantly moving, never sleeping in the same place two nights in a row. He was glad to have the company.<br/><br/>She finds him crouched over something on the ground. “Here,” he says, pointing to a footprint the size of a child’s. “Goblins, on the raid towards Dryad Wood. A dozen, three hours ago.” He points toward his front left. “Melford’s there, about ten miles. It’s an easy route.” He looks toward the way they’ve travelled further to his right, to the southwest, and she can see him contemplating something. “They know you’re few in Melford and they don’t expect anyone this far out. They’re avoiding contact. They’ve found the stream by now, it’s an easy path south. They’ll follow it.” With one hand, he holds a skirt of his jack flat and points with his dagger in the other to lay out the terrain. His companion recognizes the stream at least from other maps. “They can’t make it through the Hard Hills and we can cut them off.” He turns to face her, sheathing his blade. “Chase or flank?” Her look tells all.<br/><br/>“Ready to run?” he asks nonchalantly as he begins to do just that, away from the tracks. The hood of the woolen coif protecting his neck from his armor falls back during the run revealing his dark brown hair cut simply just above his nape and the short beard he wears. He sets a pace for a long run through broken terrain, taking a shorter route that would be far more difficult for the smaller creatures to traverse. They cross the goblins’ track thrice more before the path takes them to the road between Dryad Wood and Melford.<br/><br/>They spy a fire in a place off the road he knows and has used himself many times in the past. He calls a silent halt as they watch. “We should be minutes ahead of them. And this is too much for them to resist, especially if they’re hungry,” he whispers to her. True enough, they soon hear cries from the camp as goblins attack from another angle. “Too slow. Damn,” he quietly curses while rushing off in the darkness.