[@Blueskin][@Lucian][@Dusty][@Drinky][@Andreyich][@POOHEAD189][@TJByrum][@Laduguer]

Once the party had gathered outside the tavern, some later than others it must be said, Severo gave everyone a quick once-over sweep of his professional eye and a curt but definite nod of his head. Later, but not by much, the dawn sunlight rose above the treetops and a small column of ponies - four to be precise - were presented to the troop, laden with food, drink and all that they would need for the journey but could not carry on their persons; it was unlikely that they would need so many or so much, but the Guild was a fine provider for those employed and would not have it said otherwise.

"Our journey will take us several days, possibly three or four depending on the weather, be on your guard as we go and s[i]th[/i]tay in forma[i]th[/i]ion. The Reikwald is not the Drakenwald or the fore[i]th[/i]s of the north, but they are home to many dangers nonethele[i]th[/i]."


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The journey did indeed take a number of days, longer than the Estalian had expected in fact, due mostly to torrential downpours and rugged terrain. It was most fortunate that his group, for the most part, were seasoned soldiers - or warriors at least - a number of them of the rough mountain-folk and hardened to such prevations. 

Each day was otherwise regular as clockwork; the group would pick themselves up, or exit their shelters/tents, have breakfast, then they would march at various paces throughout the day interspersed with conversation and good-humoured (mostly) ribalding. Eventually the march would cease, the group would settle once more, and [b]that[/b] was the time for tall-tales and boasting, the sharing of a few drinks and memories...or old grudges, in the case of the Dwarfs.

Even as the weather began to grow colder - a chill wind blowing in from the far northern reaches of the world - the party made their way to within half-a-mile of their goal, Severo pulling his cloak tighter about him and creasing his face into an expression of some concern.

"There should have been guards here...hired muscle..." he muttered more to himself, tasting the air in the same way as a snake might and grimacing at the faint tang of charred wood, "this is not good."

It was then that he noticed the faint coils of smoke rising from the clearing ahead, the place where the local 'witch' made her home in a simple hovel, usually protected by troops hired by the local village headman.

Not so today.

"I need four volunteers to come with me, the rest of you must bide and protect the supplies, but be quick about it."