Alfred cursed in Welsh, the thread of ice snaking up his spine quelled only by the heat of his anger at having been deceived so easily - the Annwn, magic, the paranormal, it was [i]his[/i] domain, [i]his area of expertise[/i], it was what he did for crying out loud! But then here he was, one moment having been watching Ser Giles grow more frustrated by the second, the next contemplating the effect of emotion on the ebb and flow of mana, and then alone in the cold of the woods. He had known something was wrong, but somehow he'd not had the initiative to act upon that knowledge, nor had he seen more specifically the nature of the wrongness.

He drew his sword. Nothing that affects the perception of an entire party like this could possibly have anything good in mind, so it was best to be ready for it.

In the distance, he quite possibly heard shouting - from which direction was hard to tell, who, as well. It sounded like a man. Alfred may have heard his own name being called, it was hard to be sure - the forest was a woolen blanket over his senses. What wasn't so hard to hear, however, was the sounds the followed - the unmistakable roaring of trolls. Instantly, the thread of ice won the battle, and Alfred felt chills dominate his nerves as he reflexively reached into a pocket and brought out a pair of iron cubes - reagents, a temporary source of power and augmentative factor for certain spells. Finite in nature - at least when they were as processed as these were - and limited in their ability to truly help, but when you're dealing with trolls you need just about everything you can get.

The cold iron in one hand, the grip of his sword in the other, he scanned the woods around himself looking for threats, or friends, or figures, or anything else obvious.

And then he closed his eyes, and felt the embrace of the Annwn rise about himself - sight, but not as most know it. What would he see of the woods when looking like this?