Nestled in one of the last accessible spots before the mountains give way to sheer cliffs and jagged heights, Valaith stumbles across a rugged, yet awe-inspiring sanctuary. Perched near the top of the pass is a wide ledge cut into the ridge, with cliffs dropping off steely on either side. The lowlands stretch out in the darkness below, like a sprawling tapestry that unfurls across the land.

The ledge is shielded by natural stone formations that rise like silent guardians around its perimeter. These large, weatherworn boulders form a wall that grants cover from the unyielding mountain winds, as well as acting as a natural barrier against any potential intruders. A small overhang of rock juts out above, providing a shelter that helps keep both rain and snow at bay. The path to the ledge is a narrow, winding descent from the ridge, easily defensible and wide enough for only one mount at a time. Thick banks of cloud and mist with wisps of fog that drift down between the peaks give this spot an almost ethereal quality, shrouding the camp and making it nearly invisible from any approach.

Despite the harsh environment, this camp site is remarkably comfortable, given its altitude. The overhang keeps it sheltered and a small trickle of meltwater flows down the rock face, providing fresh, icy water for drinking and cooking. Flat slabs of rock create a low and contained fire pit, reducing the risk of exposure, but giving enough warmth to take the edge off the chill. The firelight reflects off the surrounding rock walls, casting a comforting glow within the secluded sanctuary.

"Well, it seems you have bested me."

Xej looks only mildly disappointed.

"As promised, your choice of weapon."

He opens up the back of the wagon and gestures for Val to look through the huge variety of metal objects.

"Look out for the snakes."

Thurston walks towards to one side of the natural settler, nearly outside of it, in a point were he can check the road and the surroundings but, thanks to the rocks, he wouldn't be obvious at first glance from the road. 

Still his position leaves open, but despite the cold wind plays with his cloak and hair he doesn't seems to be bothered. He leans over one knee, looking out, with Rikkazarik resting at his side. 

Val looks over the offer with a slight smile, had she been more keenly aware of the cleverness of her companion she may have realized the intent behind this, but the inherent competitive nature of her people takes the lead in her awareness of the moment. Her warrior gaze lingers on several of the items before finally settling on the large halberd; the other weapons were all deadly in their own right, but Val was not a subtle warrior. “We should have these sorts of competitions more often.” She hefts the weapon and tests its swing, it was different than the weapons she tended to use, but the extra reach could prove useful sometime. “Can I keep it in here? Until I have need of it?”

"Of course!" Disappointment crosses Xej's face for a second but he smiles and nods."Of course it can stay here for now." His eyes look beyond Val to where the bundle of knives and scimitars that Jex would usually wear sits on a shelf and he turns away in disgust.

The Acharnost make camp for the night and Aiden drifts into a heavy sleep. As his consciousness fades, he finds himself standing atop the cliff at the edge of their camp site, overlooking the shadows of the Wentwood. His eyes are drawn away to the north, where the Breannian chain of the Ice Cap Peaks extends east towards Langford and Camwen. Bathed in the pale light of the moon, the ancient, stony faces seem to watch him silently. Somewhere beyond them, a distant melody hangs in the air, clear and haunting, carried by a woman’s voice like mist over the hills. It lifts and then descends into a cascade of delicate, mournful tones.

Aiden knows this song... or, perhaps, it knows him? Each note awakens a memory, each phrase brushes against feelings long buried. The crisp salt tang of Quenlan bay. Laughter from a bonfire on a winter’s eve. His mother’s face, her hands roughened by the day’s work, yet soft against his cheek. A sadness lies in the voice, vast as the sea, yet a promise too, like the dawn breaking over the cliffs of Ahtohallan.

Drawn forward, Aiden drifts down from the Saddle of Heaven through the Wentwood. His feet rest on soft, damp moss and the music guides him between trees, whose branches arch above like the ribs of some great beast. The song mingles with the babble of a nearby brook and, soon, he stands at its bank. The water dances down from the high peaks, glittering like silver beneath the moon. Following the stream, he comes to a lake hidden within the mountain’s embrace. A lake so clear that it mirrors the sky perfectly. Every star above has its twin below and a pale mist coils across its surface, shifting as if in rhythm to the aria’s last lingering note.

In the centre of the lake, something shimmers. A blade, standing upright. The tip embedded in the water as if into earth. It shines with an unnatural brilliance, catching the moonlight and casting a silvery glow across the lake’s surface. The sword’s hilt bears the intricate design of a pair of wings spread wide.

Aiden takes a step closer and the lake’s mists part. There, stands a figure veiled in gossamer silver, her hair dark as midnight and eyes the colour of the dawn. Her gaze holds his, wise and ancient, yet infinitely sorrowful. She holds her hand out to him, inviting him forward. Aiden’s feet move, drawing him to the water’s edge. He feels the cold enter his boots, biting at his skin, and yet he wades ever forwards, unable to look away from the lady or the sword. The lake’s water rises to his waist... and then Valaith wakes him for their watch and he finds that the rain has seeped into his boots.

Thrust back into the real world, Aiden slowly stands -- the water in his boots freezing his toes. It hadn't felt like that a moment ago. The water in the dream, it had been so cold. But a different kind of cold. A bracing chill, like a Eikthynyr ice bath, that wrapped his whole body in its clutches like an embrace.

The rain in his boots was a damp annoyance. He grimaces as he squelches over to stand watch, his back to a stone. But still, he could not get the image of that ancient woman -- they Lady, perhaps even Freya -- out of his head, beckoning him onward. 

Without thinking, his hand finds the hilt of the sword at his belt and he draws it forth a few inches, letting its soft glow spill across the ground. That aria echoes over in his mind, and with it comes his mother's face again. A wave of sorrow crashes over him, shocking him awake more than the rain in his boots could ever have. So much time had passed. Her face had started to fade from his memory, but here it was, in this dream, clear as crystal. Tears begin to track down Aiden's cheeks, hidden by the falling rain. He offers up a prayer -- not to Thor or Odin, but to the Lady -- that he might find his parents.

The scabbard clicks as Aiden sheathes the sword. He wipes the tears and the rain from his face with rough hands -- not fisherman's hands, as his mothers had been -- but the hands of a warrior. What would she even think of him, if she saw him now? The sides of his head shaved, his hair tied back, a rough beard, scars on his face, arms, chest, and back. He wasn't anywhere near the boy he had been. Would she resent him for becoming this? A Norscan warrior priest? Would his father? 

He shakes his head. There was little use in worrying about it right now. He forces his attention back to standing watch...but the dream and all that it carried with it still gnaws at him.

The next morning, the Acharnost pack up and begin their descent from the icy mountain pass. The wind howls fiercely, whipping around the travellers and tugging at their cloaks. The snow underfoot is packed tightly, but treacherous patches of ice threaten their footing with every step. Jagged peaks rise like the teeth of a great beast around them and the sky is a brilliant but cold blue, with the sun glinting off of the snow and ice.

As they trudge carefully down the ever narrower and more winding path, the snow gradually gives way to slush and then to cold, wet earth. The roar of the wind grows muted, replaced by the distant sound of flowing water from the melting snow and ice. Pine trees begin to appear sporadically, their dark green needles a stark contrast against the white landscape. The air thickens as the chill of the high peaks starts to wane, replaced by a different kind of cold: the shadowy gloom of the dark coniferous forest below, heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth.

The first true conifers that the Acharnost encounter are ancient, with trunks as wide as a human is tall. Their branches interlock above, creating a canopy that blocks out much of the sky, and the forest floor is littered with fallen needles, making footsteps almost silent. Sunlight filters through in thin, eerie shafts, casting long shadows and giving everything an otherworldly glow. Though cooler, the temperature here is not as biting as the mountain, but the persistent damp chill seeps into one's bones.

Deeper into the Wentwood, the path becomes a series of animal trails, winding between thick trunks and over moss-covered rocks. The sound of the mountain wind is completely gone, replaced by the creaking of trees and the occasional rustle of unseen creatures. The scent of pine is overpowering, mixed with the earthy smell of decay as fallen branches and leaves rot into the forest floor.

When Valaith spots strange symbols carved into some of the trees, the feeling of being watched begins to spread. Occasionally, glimpses of movement can be caught out of the corner of the eye. Perhaps just wildlife, or perhaps something more sinister. The deeper into the Wentwood the Acharnost go, the darker and more oppressive the forest feels, as though it were a living entity, aware of the presence of intruders.

The majestic alpine forest dazzles Vark as the Acharnost makes their way down from the frigid mountain tops. He takes deep breaths, drinking in the heavy scent of pine with an invigorated look on his face. At first he doesn’t even notice that the Wentwood has grown darker, more foreboding, until Valaith points out the ominous symbols which have begun to mar the trees around them. Pulling Toivoa closer to one as they pass, Vark suddenly looks stricken as he recognizes the marks.

”Gnolls.” he informs the group with a gulp. “We should be careful, there might be an ambush or traps along the trail.”

"Leftovers from their failed attack?" Val grins and cracks her knuckles as she hefts Rook in her hands a few times. "Rook has something to say to them."

Bründir spits from his saddle and draws Dumdrengi. He taps his blade against Karakarin's face as he looks about the woods for other markings, "Savages, all of'em. We'll run'em out 'fore they know what's hit'em. Come out, ye devils! Ye won't scare me nor get a jump on me. I've eyes like a hawk and ears like a fox."

"If they are the remnants of that army, they have already turned in fear. Everybody has to live somewhere, why not them here? Better than attacking the town."

Xej tries to wave down his companions from instantly grabbing their arms, but he knows there is little he can do here. His own staff lays propped against the wagon seat next to him.

Aiden winces at Bründir's outburst, and draws his sword. Well, the sword he kept sheathed on his belt. He still couldn't quite bring himself to think of it as his sword. Regardless, the weapon rests easily in his gauntleted hand. His shield finds his hand next and he stands ready for an attack. 

A distant, guttural cackle echoes from somewhere far off the trail, faint and fleeting, like the forest exhaling a breath. Then silence again, oppressive and unnerving. Bründir’s defiant challenge reverberates briefly through the woods before being swallowed whole by the eerie quiet. The dwarf’s words hang in the air, unanswered. Yet the forest feels more alive somehow, its stillness no longer natural but charged, pregnant with unseen menace. Toivoa snorts nervously, ears swivelling toward the darker thickets flanking the trail, and the other horses shift uneasily, hooves stamping against the earth as though they sense something that their riders cannot.

A creeping silence falls over the trail, broken only by the rustle of branches swaying in an unfelt breeze and the soft creak of the wagon's wheels. Occasionally, the snap of a twig can be heard in the distance. Too heavy to be an animal, too fleeting to be a man. Shadows flit at the edges of the travellers' vision, amorphous and fleeting. Never solid enough to warrant a strike, but persistent enough to keep hands on weapons.

Bründir wrinkles up his nose at the warnings and rests his shield a bit higher on his thigh. "Ye clearly don' know goals. Savage beasts, no better'n a goblin above ground. Kill ye, skin ye, then roast ye - in that order, if yer lucky." The dwarf's hand pulls Stonebrow's reins closer as he leans forward in his saddle.

"What's the play, then? Vark, Thurston, an' Aiden go right; me, Val, and Xej go left? Hit'em hard, scatter quick."

“Yeah, I’m sorry Xej but Bründir’s right. Gnolls know only violence and hunger, it’s probably so quiet here cuz they ate all the animals. It is strange that they’re not attacking yet though… maybe something else is going on. Wait a minute Bründir,” he says as a familiar blue glow lights up his storm-grey eyes. He scans their surroundings, wondering if there might be some fel presence here aiding the gnolls.

The air around Vark shimmers briefly and the forest takes on a new dimension. He is immediately struck by the presence of faint magical auras, lingering like threads in the heavy gloom. The forest itself doesn’t radiate magic, but there are unmistakable traces of a supernatural influence subtly, yet pervasively interwoven with its natural energy.

A faint, almost subliminal pulse of necromantic magic clings to the symbols carved into the trees. The symbols seem to resonate with this energy and the aura leaves a cold, biting sensation in his mind.

In the forest’s darkest pockets, where the light struggles the most to penetrate, there are faint wisps of charm and illusion magic.

Vark also catches a faint aura of transmutation magic. It feels fleeting and scattered, as if tied to something that moves quickly through the woods. He senses it most strongly from the rustling underbrush and the shifting shadows, like the echo of something that can change shape, or disguise its presence.

“Just like I thought, somethings not right here.” Vark explains, eyes squinting and searching the forest around them. “There’s necromantic magic in the symbols, but there’s a lot of tricksy magic around too. Charm and illusion, and something that’s been moving around here has the power to change its shape or alter its appearance. I wonder… maybe someone’s just done all this to scare people off.” Speaking up now, Vark calls out to the ensorcelled woods. 

“Stay hidden if you want, but we see through your tricks. We need to pass through these woods. We mean no harm, but you will meet our blades if you try anything.” With that, Vark nods to the others and nudges Toivoa along slowly.

Continuing on down the trail, the Acharnost keep riding until dusk, when it becomes clear that they must pick a suitable spot to make camp for the night.

As night falls, Valaith finds a small clearing in a rare hollow nestled against a cluster of ancient pines. Their massive trunks form a natural barrier on three sides, looming like silent sentinels. The secluded area is comfortably hidden from prying eyes by dense thickets and the shadowy canopy of the forest above.

The site is situated off the main trail, accessible only through a narrow, winding path concealed by underbrush. To an untrained eye, it looks like an impassable tangle of brambles, but a careful approach reveals a gap just wide enough to traverse. Once inside, the hollow opens into a small clearing with a soft floor of moss and pine needles that muffles footsteps. Above, the overhanging branches of the ancient pines intertwine, creating a natural roof that obscures any firelight from escaping into the open forest.

The ground here is unusually level for the Wentwood, with soft patches of moss providing surprisingly comfortable spots for resting. In the centre of the clearing, a natural depression serves as an ideal fire pit, minimising smoke visibility and shielding the flames from errant breezes. A small brook trickles nearby, its water icy clear and clean, and the ambient noise adds a calming backdrop to the camp. Within the clearing, low rocks, their surfaces smoothed by years of weathering, serve as makeshift seats and a pair of large, moss-covered boulders flank the entrance.