You’d think morning and the knowledge we’re halfway
there would bolster the group. Nope; the constant whimpering by Belgo and the
maddening rants of his father has set the group on edge. And as if nature is
tuned to our aura, the skies darken, the trees begin to sway, ears pop as the
temperature drops, and rain falls…in buckets. A gully-washer. Clothing is
quickly soaked, dropping body temperatures. G-non scrambles to scout out
shelter, “Over here!”
Dark shadows suggest the elf has found a cave, but as
we draw near we find the hollowed base of a HUGE tree. Horses tied and wagon
secured, we enter. “Phew! What
died in here?” The stench overwhelming. A fire flickers within when the dwarf assumes,
“It’s a smokehouse. Notice the strips of meat hanging over the fire.” But
Rambler notices more, finding bedding and carvings upon the inner walls. Old
woodsman clothing, with dried blood on the sleeves. “It’s a home.”
