Marcon Astoro has a lot to be grateful for on the trip to Nightstone.

With the other travelers easygoing about night watches, the young warrior is free to take the predawn shift, his personal favorite. After completing his exercises and fighting drills, he gets breakfast started. He's no gourmet chef, but waking up to a meal never goes amiss.

The plethora of races in the caravan offers ample opportunity for conversation. His dark skin and hair, combined with his unusual armor, would make him stand out in a crowd of local humans. Here, though, he's an odd duck in an odd flock. His Common is accented with the lilt of the south and peppered with references to obscure books and esoteric sages. He might not always say the right thing, but there's no doubt that he speaks his mind.

And, as the sign for Nightstone points the way, he smiles, his boyish face looking more striking than comely. His thoughts, unspoken, drift to the package he stows with his affairs in whatever cart he can arrange. Armored with sword at hip and bow across back, he stretches his arms out and breathes deep.

"A fine day to arrive!" He announces to no one in particular. "They say that half the fun is getting there, but how sweet the other half will be!"