Ches 5, 1387 Year of the Emerald Ermine - Marsh of Tun

[DM Betelgeuse]

    Randal Strand, a trapper working around the lands of the western reaches, sat within his lean-to like shelter. His back was against the wall of his make shift wooden shelter and his head was leant back against it. He was breathing slowly. In through the mouth, out through the nose. In a neat pile beside him was a stack of fur and pelts, freshly harvested. Two holes had been dug in the ground just outside of his shelter. One had the tell tale signs of a fire dancing within and the other, which was about a foot way, served as an air hole. Randal had been camped in the hills between the Darkwood and the Tun for near a tenday and it was growing closer to the time he would return to market and try and sell his skins.

    The soft crackle of his fire was drowned out as the noise of many feet and conversation began to approach his position. He slid a pelt over his fire holes and remained stationary, watching the road with an alert eye. He raised an eyebrow slightly as he saw a group of the fair folk walk past. Some looked his way, he was not overly bothered about behing seen, but his eyes fixed on the elf at the lead. He wore a purple breast plate and carried a blade which seemed to be made from... sun light. His eyebrow raised further and he allowed his head to move slightly to track the direction the Tel'Quessir where heading in. Once they had passed, he returned to his meditation.

    The day had changed to night and Randal's fire had died out. He was slowly packing up his haul, rolling up the pelts and hanging them from his pack. He rolled his left shoulder with a grimace, groaning slightly through gritted teeth. Years earlier he had been kicked by a horse, taking the brunt of the blow through his shoulder. It had never quite healed right and the cold always made it stiff and painful. Almost like a blade sticking in a hilt from the frost. He stood silent for a moment, letting the pain subside to a dull ache. "I am getting to old for the long days on the road..." he allowed himself the brief thought before shaking his head. He looked skyward, then to the horizon before letting out a soft sigh. With a slight grunt, he forced his feet to move.

    Randal slowly made his way towards the Tun, just a few traps left to check before he could head home. Whistling a tune, he carefully scanned the path as he walked. His father had always taught him to keep an eye on the trails, to see how many people had been passing through an area. He stopped a moment, frowning, his eyes looking over a large collection of foot prints. Some heavier than others. A look of realisation came over his face. It must have been the group of Tel'Quessir he saw previously. In a rare moment, he let his impulsive thoughts win, and he altered his path to follow the grouped foot prints. He allowed a brief look of surprise as his eyes scanned over the corpses of dead giants. They had not moved through clean. He shook his head slightly.

    Arriving in a clearing, Randal looked around a moment with narrowed eyes. It was the old elven shrine. The tracks just stopped here. With confusion, he pondered. Not many could slip past him. But then again... these where Tel'Quessir and they was obviously up to something...