Look for the big maple? How in the name of oblivion was she supposed to know which one was a maple. Well Merci, she said to herself, look for the one with the leaves. Fortunately any additional botany proved unnecessary, using the sound of the voice and the sense of a spell she was able to get close enough to where both the fog and the trees seemed to thin out.

The grizzled Hector and the Dark Elf, Berig or Balen or something both stood in the small clearing. Neither one seemed the source of the voice.

"Hello gentlemen," she introduced herself, hiding her relief at being in the company of others and out of the cursed fog. The barrow stood infront of her, impressive in an ancient brooding sort of way. As a child she had once gone to Privateer's Hold on a dare. This looked centuries older than that ruin. Merci closed her fist and her magelight winked out, the dimness of the fog redoubling.