Riding decisively out of the small fortress that is the Estermerean guardhouse is a relatively big troop of about 75-100 guards, led by who the locals knew as the Smasher - Captain Selford Ironmaw. The Smasher in full battle armor was a sign that one should be content to be on his side. His plate armor was rusty, but still lived up to all its functions. Slung over his back was a beautifully crafted greatsword of dragon-make, and the iron-clad horse he was riding on had a single spike on its forehead. All remnants of his once-great career in the foreign campaigns, the rumors went.
“YOU! You there! Stop fuddling about!”
Even the Red Locks feared his hand just as much as their Grandmaster. A solitary red hood scampered off into a dark alley. 
The captain bent over to his side to whisper to a dwarf. “Send a sword or two over to Randolf’s boys. I don’t trust those gnolls.”
The dwarf nodded and hollered in Elvish to a couple of lads at the back. Four wood elves with bows and arrows mounted on leather-clad horses sped off in the opposite direction. It wasn’t a surprise that the Estermere garrison had one of the most uniquely diverse ethnic backgrounds in Rostguard. Meanwhile, the Knight of the Leaf strode briskly in front of the parade. 
“Captain, one hundred men for a camp of ten? Are you familiar with the word-”
“Overkill?” The captain simmered, a faint whiff of smoke emitting from his nostrils. “NO one gets into Forest Mither unannounced and lives to tell the tale, laddie.” He shook his head at the elf. “That should be true for YOU too, boy.”
The elf took offense at being called a ‘boy’, but thought better to challenge a dragonborn in charge of two hundred armed men. They reached the outskirts of the town.
“I assume you can follow paths, right? Take that one. Then, once you reach Claw Boulder, dismount if you want to be subtle. Hard a right and you’ll come across the camp.”