Lanariel Vanalan breathed in the cool air of the open forest as she made her way down the twisting narrow path. A strong wind caused the flowers caught in the breeze to dance about her like a spinning cyclone. Here and there a green leaf from the trees swayed among the blues and whites. A sudden sneeze rocked the cloaked figure--oh how she hated her allergies. The day was beautiful out as any fool could see yet she could scarcely enjoy it. Unused to the great outdoors, the woman found herself stuffy and congested constantly. A fate no magic she possessed could remedy sadly. It was sometimes infuriating to imagine magic was capable of countless wondrous things, yet for something as trivial as this she had no power to overcome. 

Perhaps had she been a druid? No if such was the cause she would have had much more resilient a constitution in the first place. At least her journey would not last much longer. The wind was bothersome, but the heat from the sun above warmed her bones well enough. It was a cloudy day to be sure; the hooded and cloaked elf only hoped there was to be no rain. She could hardly tell the weather given her lack of experience in the outdoors.

The woman’s long coat, a deep black, aided in hiding her stunning features and pointed ears. All signs that would have given away her race instantly. Her magnificent silver snow hair cascaded down and peaked from the folds of her hood. Silver eyes watched the surrounding terrain with a mix of caution and anxiety. She once again questioned the wisdom of her superiors in sending her to aid this resistance. Sure she held promise, but her experience in such a role and away from the grand temples no less… she had to admit she held some doubt in her heart. She gripped the quarterstaff in her right hand more firmly as she climbed a small hill. A few bells tied to one end that rattled with each step. Her most interesting aspect however, was not her choice of cloths or race, but instead the interact tattoo of a death mask plastered upon her face. Giving her the appearance of a black and white death head.

From her new vantage point the young elf (young in the years of elves at least) caught her breath at the sight. Countless tents, pavilions, and numerous wagons. This had to be it there was no doubt. The Moving. The younger races often thought of the most mind numbingly mediocre of names for such things. Still she guessed it was fitting enough.                    

Well she had at least arrived, she only hoped that the news of her coming had preceded her as her superiors had planned. She wondered what awaited her on this path she had been given.