As of 1/1/98


TURN 3: Dawn-time Discoveries



Ysoltre's ears picked up sounds, causing him to awaken. Odors - pleasant ones by and large - tickled his nose. He blinked, slowly becoming aware that it was daylight. With that awareness came recognition of the auditory clues: people breaking camp, and the voices of those he had met at dusk in the stone circle. Dusk? And yet now the sun shone. The minstrel started, realizing that he had slept the night away.

"Awake at last, friend Ysoltre?" The voice was that of Hroknar, the Dervatear warrior. Ysoltre commanded his body to rise and propped himself up on one elbow. His compatriot squatted down beside him, holding a battered tin cup that presumably contained a hot liquid, given the wispy tendrils of steam that drifted skyward over the rim. "An herbal concoction that Karissa brewed," Hroknar explained. "Rogmund swore that it would help get your blood pumping and your eyes open."

The Dervatear warrior was fully armored, and seemed to have been up and about for some little time.

"Thank you," Ysoltre said as he patted his comrade on the shoulder, then accepted the beverage. The bard sampled the drink through tiny sips, obviously seeking to give the liquid time to cool. "It appears as though I have slept through my shift." A blush was evident on the half-elf's skin.

Visually locating the rest of the quartet, Ysoltre rose, placed the tin cup on the ground, then carefully folded the blanket on which he had slept. He quickly ran a hand through his dark-blonde hair in a futile attempt to look presentable, then picked up both blanket and drink and approached Karissa.

"Your blanket, Milady," he said, a sudden smile spreading his lips as he bowed slightly in greeting. "You covered my watch last night. The least I can do is help you clean up." Before the Theavian could object, the bard began to pack up her equipment, somehow managing to keep his libation steady while maneuvering items with his free hand. "An interesting beverage," Ysoltre said, pausing to take a sip of the hot drink, "what is it?"

"Boiled water with an admixture of various herbs and spices, a tea, if any label must be placed 'pon it," Karissa answered. "'Tis something that both Rogmund and I hath found we enjoy equally, and so I determined that thee and Hroknar might find it palatable as well." A slight, wistful smile drifted across her lips. "I must confess that my palate seems to revolt 'gainst the taste of many foods prepared in the wholly human manner."

"Understandable," Ysoltre said, taking another sip of the brew. "'Twas my mother who was of Fpathen blood, and she did most of the cooking in our family. I suppose I have grown accustomed to elvish dining preferences." The minstrel smiled warmly. "So," he asked, "what is on the menu for this morning?"

"Dried fruit, bread, some soup stock, and that which thou dost currently imbibe," the woman answered. "Nutritious and filling, if not a feast. Still, 'tis an improvement o'er most travel rations, I suppose." Karissa grimaced. "Ne'er hath I claimed the creation of fine cuisine as a particular skill."

"Nonsense," the minstrel said, pausing to give the woman a reassuring smile. "I am sure it is delicious."

"Eeeewww, 'tis clear now," Karissa replied, violet eyes a bit wide as a smile began to play about her lips. "Thou art the sort who charms and beguiles, and with the early morn' no less." Her smile widened, seeming even more vivacious and lively than Ysoltre remembered from the night before.

The Theavian filled up a small, wooden bowl with soup and handed it to Ysoltre. "The fruit and bread thou must grab as desired, or rather I might carry for thee." She pointed to where Rogmund and Hroknar were huddled outside the stone circle, near where the archer's and her horses were grazing on the lush, springtime growth. "'T'would seem that something hath bewitched and enamored our fellows for some reason."

Ysoltre nodded and smiled as he accepted the bowl, then turned so that he might look toward the archer and Dervatear's position. "It would appear so." The bard bent down suddenly, grabbing another bowl and filling it with soup. "But I must not break fast before you. It would be rude." He then began to fill a third bowl with soup.


Hroknar shifted the weight of his shield, even as he leaned heavily on the haft of his upturned battle axe, the top of the wide blade resting on the ground. "I saw you wave me over. However, if you need some help with your animals, I must confess to not being very good with horses. Never have been. To be perfectly honest, I think that they even intimidate me a little."

Rogmund shook his head, apparently unconcerned with Hroknar's announcement. The archer squatted down, even as one hand rose to point at a section of ground nearby. "Notice how the grass is bent over in this area, with several tufts uprooted? Something was lying there, for quite a length of time, and didn't leave all that much before dawn for such obvious signs to remain this long."

He gazed over at Hroknar. "Neither you nor I nor Trollbait saw or heard anything last night, yet something - something at least man-sized - was here, something that moved quietly enough that none of us saw or heard anything out of the ordinary, something that did not attack us in the night, but seems to have kept a close watch regardless."

As Hroknar looked at the patch of ground indicated by Rogmund, the Dervatear slowly stroked his long beard. He stooped close to the ground, peered closely, then rose. "Aye. I'm not much of a woodsman, but you'd have to be blind to miss the signs this creature made." Hroknar shifted his position, taking care not to disturb anything. "Have you taken the time to see if you are able to follow any tracks that might lead away? I wouldn't want to trample any sign that you might be able to follow before I trod upon them."

Rogmund stood, a look of concern etched onto his features. "There were no other tracks that I noticed, which might lend further credence to Trollbait's opinion that the beast could be a Yeth Hound. She did say such a creature possessed the power of flight." The archer shrugged. "Still, I might have missed something. I'm a fair tracker as soldiers go, but certainly no warder, woodsman, or avid huntsman. If Bowen was here, he probably could provide greater clarity."

"Breakfast?" drifted forth Ysoltre's voice. Rogmund turned, as did Hroknar. The minstrel and Karissa moved closer to the two warriors, Ysoltre holding a bowl of soup in each hand, which he offered to Rogmund and Hroknar. Both human and Dervatear nodded a greeting as they took the offered food.

Ysoltre kneeled down, examining the ground. "No tracker am I, but it appears you have stumbled onto a clue. What does this grass tell you that it does not tell me?"

Rogmund spilled a bit of his bowl's contents as he gestured at the nearby ground, then to the surrounding area. "Little more than is obvious, I'm afraid. Something man-sized or larger rested there, for quite some time for the signs to remain still; it left no tracks coming or going; and apparently moved so silently as to not give any indication of its presence during the hours of darkness, else Trollbait, Hroknar, or I would have alerted one and all."

Hroknar listened intently, breaking his concentration only when he let slip a few pleasant sounds after taking a few spoonfuls of soup, obviously enjoying the taste of it. "What I don't like is the cunning this thing has. It seems to be patient, and apparently was willing to wait here for one of us to become foolish enough to leave the circle. It's a good thing nobody tried, or the rest of us would be looking at a corpse right now, instead of bent and broken grass."

The Dervatear paused momentarily to take another spoonful of soup. "If we are to look around the remains of this village, I would like to make a suggestion. We need to make it back here, to this circle, before the sun sets. I, for one, would not like to be away from it when the beast is roaming the night."

Ysoltre nodded his agreement. "I will show you what I saw in the ruined tavern, if you have not seen it already," he said to Rogmund. "I could not make much sense of what I saw, but then again, I am no tracker. Mayhap one of you will discover something that I could not. Mayhap a more extensive search of the hamlet will yield more clues."

A low grumble sounded in Ysoltre's stomach. The bard smiled as he began to back away from the others, toward the megalithic ruins. "I beg your pardon; my belly is reminding me that I have not broken fast yet. Let me get a bowl of Karissa's soup and a loaf of bread and we can proceed."

"An excellent idea," Rogmund remarked. "Let's break fast, then break camp. As Hroknar inferred, daylight seems to be our ally. It would seem wise to take advantage of the day as much as possible."

Karissa looked pensive. "Any in-depth battle strategy we might plan like as not would alter itself within the confines of specific buildings. Still, we might at least speak of Ysoltre's and my mystical capabilities, to help ensure we ourselves are not the victims of some misspent spell or dweomer. Mayhap, a battle code or two for directed fire 'gainst a single opponent or call to form up or retreat also might be prudent."

Hroknar chuckled, his mirth obvious if a bit reserved. "Aye, it would be a good idea to come up with some prearranged signals. But why don't we let Rogmund and Ysoltre come up with them, eh? If you and I were to do it, the signals would be overly long. Like as not, we'd be in the belly of the beast while still uttering, 'Let us get ourselves from this place! The creature is among us, and from the aspect upon its visage, I would say that we are in for a bit of trouble.' And so on and so forth." Another short burst of laughter issued forth from the Dervatear warrior.

The archer took another sip of his soup. "Just your typical breakfast conversation, eh? A little mayhem to speed up digestion." He gestured toward the stone circle, managing to spill some of his broth once again. "Then if somebody will take my bowl, I will endeavor to get the horses to graze closer to the Andusarian megaliths."

"At the very least, another's grasp might ensure thy body hath the opportunity to succor itself. It seems 'twas unwise of Ysoltre to entrust the bowl to thy hands, or didst thou intend to make a sacrifice of thy meal to gain Celestial favor for our endeavors this day?"

"Not a bad idea, Trollbait," Rogmund answered as he handed Karissa the bowl. "With my luck, we'll probably end up delving into some subterranean realm where this Yeth Hound doesn't have to worry about the sun." He smiled suddenly. "Just remember, Hroknar said you're the one who gets to drive the beast out into the daylight."

Hroknar drained his bowl of its contents, then looked to his companions as they moved toward the stone circle. "Do you know if there is a stream of water nearby? I have always been the type to keep a full skin of water. No matter how much remains, I tend to fill my skin whenever the opportunity presents itself."

"I will accompany you, Hroknar," Ysoltre called out from his position within the stone circle as the others approached. The minstrel had filled a bowl of his own, eating the soup while precariously balancing a hunk of bread on the edge of the container.

"The stream lies near the hamlet, so we might all travel together, wherein Rogmund and I can stand vigil whilst the two of thee refill our skins," Karissa interjected. "Let us finish our meals, then break camp." Her eyes met those of her half-elven counterpart. "Thou shouldst borrow an axe from Hroknar, if he will part with it. Thy cleaver would seem more suitable as secondary support than primary weapon."

Ysoltre mumbled what seemed to be agreement, obscured somewhat as he took another gulp of soup. One hand drifted down to display the sheathed dagger fastened to his belt. "I believe I will fare better with Hroknar's dagger. I have more familiarity with a blade than with an axe. Let us just hope the need to wield it does not arise."

Karissa stepped closer to Ysoltre, her gaze and manner more intense. "Also, thou didst speak of dabbling in the Theavian arts last eve'. Dost thou retain knowledge necessary to invoke any dweomers, and what might they be? 'Twould be unwise of us to stumble forth inadvertently into some spell released by one of our own."

"I have only been able to master two such dweomers, given my limited experience," Ysoltre replied. "A chap in Eastriver, fancied himself an enchanter, taught me to tap into the magical weave through use of gestures and mystic phrases. He taught me how to create cantrips, and how to charm a person's will through the use of magic."

The minstrel paused, staring into his bowl of soup as silence reigned. "I have found that if I attempt to call upon magic more than twice a day, I become fatigued beyond exhaustion. I might be able to gain a stronger hold on the art with more experience, but, for now, I am limited to this condition."

Karissa nodded. "Two dweomers then, usable by thee; one of lasting effect, the other for minor effect. For mine own part, several spells of significant offensive capability do I possess, in addition to those which might succor our bodies from grievous injury. Know one and all that I might invoke in our defense a magical force that strikes as would an arrow; an o'erpowering slumber that can affect many in the spell's area of effect; and a blinding flash of color that can rob foes of sight for no little time, or e'en dumbfound or strike senseless some foes. Other dweomers might I also conjure forth, yet these three thou shouldst know of and take steps to ensure that thee and thine do not become a target unwittingly."

After several minutes, Rogmund had finally managed to get his and Karissa's horses to graze closer to the ruins. "Good idea, your warning," he said, joining the others. "I've seen you when you get riled. I, for one, will be staying well out of your way when you start waving your arms and doing those wild hand contortions."

Rogmund fixed his gaze on the half-elven minstrel. "Ysoltre, the group needs to decide on a few prearranged signals for directed fire, retreat, or form-up, those sorts of things. Hroknar believes that it's an endeavor better suited to us two, that anything he and Trollbait might come up with runs the risk of being too wordy, given that Dervatear and Theavians both enjoy hearing themselves talk."

Ysoltre smiled at Rogmund's comment. "My father had much military experience, but other than, 'If a goblin gets too close to the house, cut off its head,' he did not pass on any of it. I am afraid that I will not be much help in determining battle cries or strategies, unless, of course, we plan to sing any foe to sleep."

The bard scratched his head. "I suppose 'retreat' is universal. And the best place to regroup would be the stone circle. The rest, I think, should be determined by you."

Rogmund shrugged. "Actually, any designation must indicate an easily understood meaning to our group, but not give away too much to any opposition in the midst of battle. For example, retreat starts with an 'R' so our call for retreat might be 'Red Raven.' Staying with the bird motif, 'Black Crow' could be the call for directed fire against an opponent engaged by the caller, since crows are believed by many to be harbingers of disaster or some undesirable fate. If one of us should become separated, the best place to regroup obviously is the stone circle. But try to leave a message indicating your intent. Everybody has a sharp blade or something similar, so etch an encircled bird figure onto a rock or wall, and be sure to make it easily noticeable."

"Ah, now I understand," Ysoltre remarked. "The commands should be in code so that our enemies might not know what we are attempting. A fine strategy." The minstrel seemed pleased, and he was; his curiosity was a constant part of his personality, and discerning new information always filled him with a certain sense of delight.

The armored archer looked to the sky. "Now that we've warned everyone about whatever mystical spells Trollbait and you might throw about and come up with a few basic battle strategies, we had best finish our meals, break camp, and head toward the hamlet. Our preparations have been fairly complete, so we're not rushing forth like a bunch of wide-eyed pikers. We should feel fairly good about that. Now we just have to put everything into practice."

Karissa smiled as she handed Rogmund's bowl of soup back to the archer. "Then cease thy prattle, and finish thy meal."

"Oh, the iron pot calling the kettle black," Rogmund replied, the bemused expression that seemed to frequent his face returning yet again.

"Mayhap Hroknar and I hath a predilection for speaking o'erly much, but at least we know when words must be spoken and when silence should reign."

"Hroknar thinks he always has to have the last word?" Rogmund glanced over at the Dervatear, a look of mock surprise plastered across the human warrior's face. "Don't mind us. We go on like this all the time. I bait her, Trollbait reacts. Poor little breed girl can't help herself. Every once in a while she pierces me with her sharp wit."

"Mmmmmm," Karissa mumbled, "a sharp tongue could be employed as well."

Mock surprise gave way to an equally false look of fear and distaste. However, Rogmund remained silent, smiling wistfully just before he began to consume his soup in earnest.

"Well, at least we'll have some entertainment along the way," Ysoltre said softly to Hroknar as the bard looked from Rogmund to Karissa, a smile wider than the archer's own adorning his face all the while.


Ethan de Nomestra cursed silently as the beginnings of pain coursed through his body. True, it was only a wooden stick, but the broken point made it feel as though it was the most tempered steel, a stake threatening to pierce all-too-sensitive flesh at a point unprotected by the studded leather armor he wore. Why had he not practiced greater prudence when he had dived into the bushy undergrowth? Had his recent flight set his nerves on edge to such a degree?

The Langington native looked again at those he considered the cause of his current predicament: four figures, two of whom seemed intent on making their way to the stream that coursed below Ethan's current furtive position, two others who remained seated on the only horses present, guardians whose vigilance fortunately seemed more directed toward the broken and batter ruins of whatever hamlet lay beyond.

They had emerged but moments before from across the open areas visible on the far side of the stream. Thankfully, he had the advantage of the woodlands that began on his side of the embankment. At least, Ethan had considered himself thankful before his impromptu plunge into the prickly bushes.

He cringed inwardly. Somehow, the bellowing cry of "Umanik" reverberated quietly in his head, as it had several times in the past few days, and not always limited to fear-fraught, fatigued dreams.

Ethan squinted, trying to make out additional details. Two of the strangers - one of the mounted sentries and one of those approaching the stream - wore armor. The latter figure seemed to be a Dervatear as well, based on his height and build and obvious beard. The Dervatear's immediate companion appeared to be unarmored, with a tangle of long, dirty-blonde hair that captured the sunlight of the newborn day. Details on the fourth figure - the other mounted sentry - proved sketchy at best, for a billowing, hooded cloak of some darkish-green hue obscured any easily identifiable features.

And here he had considered his recent string of bad luck to have changed, first with his stumbling across the string of interconnected valleys that had made travel both easier and faster, even if the path had pointed easterly, then with the eventual appearance of the hamlet.

Friends or foes? drifted forth the unspoken thought. As gently and quietly as possible, Ethan shifted his weight, seeking to maneuver himself within the prickly thicket. He could try to wiggle himself free from the bushes, but he realized that might cause more harm than good, possibly even alerting the four strangers. Even if he was to free himself and was to attempt to circle around the small group, his ignorance of the area could cause him to become more lost than he already was. Besides, he thought to himself, his brow furrowing, they don't appear to be unfriendly.

Ethan slowly slipped his long bow off his shoulder and retrieved a single flight arrow from its quiver. Although the Langington warrior was not one given to the old "attack first, inquire as to intentions later" theory, he wanted to be as prepared as possible for the unexpected, especially given his current predicament within the prickly thicket. Ethan nocked the flight arrow, bending back the oxhair bowstring, the long bow bending into a near-perfect crescent shape, sighting on first one of the strangers, then another.

The stream's water was cool and clear, but curiously lower than Hroknar, Ysoltre, Karissa, or Rogmund had expected. Springtime runoff should have filled the channel to overflowing. Instead, Hroknar and Ysoltre had to clamber down a steep incline - a geographical feature that normally would have been underwater - to reach the lesser level. Possible evidence of a dam upstream, Karissa had conjectured. Yet another thing hidden by last night's darkness, Hroknar had offered. Rogmund had been concerned mainly by the tactical disadvantage presented, for it would be more difficult than any had first assumed for Hroknar and Ysoltre to move quickly if some danger reared its head. In the end, Rogmund and Karissa had stayed mounted, two vigilant sentries, as the Dervatear and minstrel went about the mission of filling each of the group's waterskins.

Hroknar mumbled every curse he had ever heard as he eyed the water warily. "Doesn't look too deep." His gaze shifted to the surrounding forest. "You could hide a hobgoblin patrol in amidst the dense foliage and a passerby would never know." Still grumbling, Hroknar turned toward Ysoltre. "If you will fill up the skins, I will keep watch to make sure nothing molests us. But please hurry. Karissa's observation that there might be a dam somewhere upstream from here makes me edgy. With my luck, the damn dam will probably burst and we will be up to our eyeballs in a flash flood."

Ysoltre grinned, the bard's thoughts on what he had heard about the Dervatear race disliking deep water, or even not-so-deep water. Surely Hroknar is not afraid of this little stream? drifted forth the unspoken consideration. Not wishing to appear rude in asking such a question, Ysoltre took the three waterskins from his comrade, emptied the contents, and refilled each to capacity. The deed done, Ysoltre handed each back to the Dervatear one by one.

"Hold for a moment, Hroknar. I want to scrub myself down a bit. Although you three have been too kind to keep from mentioning it, I fear my stench is akin to that of some dung-rolling, overripe goblinkind."

The minstrel waded out into the stream, removing his shirt as he moved. Hroknar could see an ugly gash across Ysoltre's stomach area. The wound had been incurred relatively recently, perhaps in the last day or two, and had been inflicted by what must have been a sharp-edged weapon of some type.

Ysoltre dipped his blood-caked and sweat-stained blouse into the water and used the cloth to cleanse the would of dried blood and filth. He grimaced at both the tenderness of the still painful injury and the cool crispness of the springtime water to his flesh, but he bore the discomfort and quickly finished his impromptu bath.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Ysoltre of Galleyton's Hold, but I am going to have to insist that you let Karissa take a look at that wound," Hroknar said. "If I read your face correctly, then it still causes you some discomfort. If that is so, then it may lessen your ability in a fight, or it may become infected and lead to further complications for yourself and those in our group. At the very least, the wound could reopen, and the smell of fresh blood might attract the attention of the Yeth Hound."

The minstrel started to reply, then just let loose a deep sigh. What good would it do to argue the point? Besides, pride was a silly thing to let get in the way. Ysoltre's gaze met that of the Dervatear. "Aye, it is probably best that she have a look at it," the bard replied.

Suddenly, the bard dropped down, submerging his head beneath the water and running a hand through the wet, tangled mass of his dirty-blonde hair. "Much better," Ysoltre announced, obviously somewhat refreshed, as he wrung out his blouse and then re-clothed himself. "Shall we continue?"

Hroknar handed two of the waterskins to the minstrel, then followed Ysoltre as the former climbed back up the incline to rejoin their compatriots.

"A few nights past, I suffered a wound," Ysoltre said to Karissa as he handed a waterskin to Rogmund, then its mate to the woman. He untucked his blouse and lifted it, revealing swollen, discolored flesh and the unsightly gash. "It is nothing that time will not heal, but Hroknar is a bit more concerned."

Whatever response the Theavian might have given was lost as a loud voice boomed forth suddenly from the wooded highland dominated the opposite embankment. "I say, hello and good journey to the four wanderers below. What brings you to this part of the Innocus?"

Upon hearing the voice, Hroknar shifted automatically toward the direction of its source, losing his already precarious balance - climbing up a steep incline with shield and axe at ready being most difficult - and sliding back down the embankment to the stream's bed below. "Who is it that hails us?" Hroknar called out. He jumped up, shield held high, his grasp tightening on his battle axe. "Step forth so that we might put a face with the voice!"

On the higher ground behind the Axemaster, Rogmund's hand grasped an arrow from its quiver and nocked the shaft to the bow he held, even as Karissa's left leg rose up and over the saddle and horse's neck smoothly, gracefully, letting the woman slip off her mount and drop to the ground, the movement putting the animal between her and the unseen caller. "Ysoltre, this side of my horse," she whispered. "Make haste!"

The bard stood flabbergasted momentarily, dark-green eyes trying to discern the hidden speaker, then Hroknar. Karissa's urgent tone penetrated the haze paralyzing his body, and the bard dove behind the gray-dappled gelding as instructed. "Is he an enemy?"

"I know not," Karissa replied, "yet prudence suggests we not make ourselves easy targets for arrow, bolt, or spell."

"By the Swordmaster's wrath!" Rogmund spat forth, "Hroknar has tumbled back down the incline. Trollbait, I shall stay mounted. If this is a foe we face, perhaps I might draw forth any attack and provide Hroknar with an opportunity to find a more defensible position."

Karissa mumbled something unintelligible, and at a level audible only to the bard who stood near here. Ysoltre thought back to what the woman had said the night before, about Rogmund sometimes purposely placing himself in the path of danger, apparently with little regard for consequence.

The Theavian spun suddenly, shocking Ysoltre from his reverie as she studied the ruins of the presumably abandoned village. "Let us pray that this summons doth not herald a feint by some superior force from the hamlet," she called out, so that Rogmund might hear as well as the bard. "If an attack comes, we should drop down the incline to the stream bed. We can ride two ahorse, and flee at the gallop, hoping that the gully and surrounding terrain might offer some respite from arrows and such."

"Again, I say to you, step forth so that we might put a face with the voice!" Hroknar called forth, even as he cursed himself for sliding back down the incline, well aware that his position in relation to the wooded highland was not one any warrior would desire.

"It wouldn't please me more than to step forth and introduce myself, friend Dervatear. However, one can't be too careful within these mountains. Perhaps, if you wouldn't mind, you could make your way toward me. Eye the thicket of prickly bushes, if you would, and make your way toward them. I'm not far off, and I promise no harm will come to you. In the name of the king of Langington, Durant de Angelosis the fifth, I swear this."

Hroknar glanced back at his companions to make certain that they were fully aware of what was happening. The Dervatear grunted to himself when he saw that they were, and that they also seemed to be taking appropriate actions.

"I am sorry to have to decline your solution to this matter," Hroknar called out, turning back toward the opposite embankment. "I'll not put myself at the mercy of a man who might strike me down from hiding. However, if you put stock in swearing oaths, then I have one for you: If you come out of the bushes, I swear by the name of my father, Haktrah of the Second Warren, and I swear also by the name of the Forger, Celestial Tseld, and I further swear by the name of King Dommic Stonefast, and my honor as an Initiate of the H'kars Gryts that no harm will come to you as long as you mean us no harm. If any here raises a hand to you without due cause, then they shall answer to my axe and the arm that wields it! However, if you mean us harm, then you'd best get on with it and stop wasting daylight!"

The Dervatear could just barely make out what seemed to be grumbled oaths, then the voice called out once again. "I appreciate your honors, friend Dervatear. May the blessings of Dirion fall upon you and yours, and may the forge of Celestial Tseld never grow still and cold." The voice paused, and when it sounded again, there seemed to be some hesitancy in the tone. "The fact of the matter is that, at this moment, I am unable to remove myself from these bushes that I dove into when I first noticed your advance. I call upon you not only as a means of introduction, but also as a means of, ummmm, getting me out of here. So I say again, friend Dervatear, would you . . . could you please find it in your heart and in your legs to make your way up to the prickly thicket and assist a pained and somewhat embarrassed traveler?"

Hroknar could hear sudden laughter erupt from behind him - Ysoltre's voice. "Doubtful that it's a ruse," the bard offered aloud. "If the man wished us dead he could have taken me or any of us with bow, crossbow, or spell while I was bathing."

"Assuming that our unseen caller hath access to any of the three," Karissa interjected. "Still, if he is armed only with a melee weapon, then the odds might be even lest he hath silent compatriots secreted amongst the trees."

"I would tend to agree," Hroknar called out, "but as he said, you cannot be too careful within these mountains." Silence reigned for a moment as the Dervatear pondered the situation. His grip tightened reflexively on the haft of his battle axe. "Rogmund, if you will keep your bow at ready and an eye toward the thicket, I will go across and see if he needs the aid requested. Just . . . just keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary."

Rogmund dismounted, took up his bow once again, and re-nocked the arrow into place. He nodded to Hroknar as the archer pulled the bowstring somewhat taunt.

Water gurgled gently as it moved downstream, seeming to Hroknar to be a raging torrent as he waded into the cool depths. One footstep, then another, even a third. Hroknar grimaced as the water drifted up to the level of his thighs. He looked about him, noticing that he was midway to the other side. The Dervatear sighed, realizing that the sweat drenching his body made it seem as though he had taken an inadvertent dip.

Two quick prayers of supplication and thanks were offered to Celestial Tseld as Hroknar reached the opposite bank. A few moments more and the Dervatear was making his way up the incline, though he had to strap his battle axe to his backpack, cursing the remembrance of his earlier, undignified fall and not wishing to relive the occurrence. If this man is a foe, then I am dead, became Hroknar's silent mantra as he ascended the earthen palisade.

The moment Hroknar reached high ground, he stood, shifting his shield before him even as he pulled forth his battle axe. It was only then that he realized the act might be taken as a sign of hostile intention.

Hroknar peered into the bushes, trying to find any sign of the voice's owner. Seeing nothing obvious, he risked a look back at his three companions waiting on the other side of the stream. Sighing gratefully that they remained at hand and apparently willing to lend assistance, Hroknar turned back to the matter at hand. "I can only imagine how it must look with me arming myself to greet you. However, if you are a deceiver and truly mean us harm, then you have much to fear."

Laughter issued forth from the thicket. "A typical Dervatear - always ready for the unexpected. Well, friend Dervatear, let me assure you that you'll get nothing unexpected from me this day."

"If you will keep up a steady stream of talk or movement, I will be able to locate you that much more quickly," Hroknar remarked, "and the sooner I find you, the sooner this business will be over."

Part of the omnipresent thicket seemed to shake. Hroknar could just make out a form within. One lone human, who seemed to be placing an arrow back into the quiver strapped to his back. Then, the voice continued. "Besides, how could anyone, let alone my pathetic self, possess evil thoughts toward a Dervatear willing to risk such rapids in order to save someone he doesn't even know, eh?"

The man picked a thorny branch from an all-too-delicate position against his body. He smiled, then winked at the Axemaster. "Ethan de Nomestra, at your service, or, more accurately, in your debt."





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