[center][h3][color=lightgreen]Gadri Abzan[/color][/h3][/center]

Gadri sighed as the wagon ahead rolled to a stop, rattling to a halt like every single other vehicle ahead of them had done. Another thrown wheel or broken suspension. They tugged, frustrated, at the end of their beard, then stood from the driver's seat and headed into the main forge. The terrain here was infuriating - too much stop-and-start to set up the forge, yet oppressive and uncomfortable enough that they couldn't take the opportunity to actually appreciate the quiet.

Not that there was ever much quiet for the caravan's dwarven metalworker. They grabbed a heavy leather satchel sat next to the door, tightened the strap holding their hammer to their apron, then stepped out the back door, firmly pulling it to and locking it. Far too many valuables to trust even other caravaners around this particular wagon.

[color=lightgreen]"Going to see if I can't clear the holdup quicker,"[/color] they explained to nobody in particular, then set out at their usual steady pace, boots sinking a little into the soft, constantly damp mud. 

[center][h3][color=khaki]Malleck 'Freepaw'[/color][/h3]
Talking to [color=slategray]Athulwin[/color] ([@Tortoise])[/center]

It was too green in these woods.

Too green, too wet, too... [i]Alive.[/i] In his time inside the caravan, Malleck had seen all sorts of sights alien to most of the painted folk, but the one thing that he could never quite get over was how [i]lush[/i] everything seemed normally. When you grew up surrounded by chest-high stalks of yellow-green broken up by the occasional pop of colour from a bush or tree, even a simple temperate meadow seemed like an impossibly verdant explosion of life. The Forest of Emerald though, with its overwhelming palette of... well, [i]emerald[/i] green, was something else altogether. It almost hurt his eyes to stare out at the sun-dappled grass, dew dripping down each stalk, or look up at the hardwood pillars that jutted into the sky, taller than any building he'd seen.

But that wasn't the worst part of all this - oh no. The worst part was that the vast canopies that hung above the caravan were thick enough that at night, you could only just make out the starlight where it slipped between wide, heavy leaves. Instinct told him that Otota had shifted across to the east and closer to the horizon line, but until they finally gave this strange place the slip, instinct was all he had. The last glimpse of Otota he'd had was eight days ago.

Needless to say, that he was somewhat on edge, and when the wind-whispered message from Athulwin came he practically leapt out of his skin before realising who and what it was. He nodded - the gesture entirely meaningless, then pushed himself up from the back of the stopped cart he'd been resting atop, giving a wave to the kindly older woman who had shared a fire with him last night. [color=khaki]"Thank you for your time! And the soup, it was delicious!"[/color] Then, with steel-shod staff in hand and a tambourine tinkling against the side of his rucksack, he set off. There'd been the constant muttering of refugees among the Caravan for a few days now, but so far he'd not seen hide nor hair of them, and Athulwin's suggestion was a good one. Now, all he needed to do was to track down Athulwin, and from him find the location of the refugees.

As he strolled along, waving and cheerily greeting those that he passed by, he couldn't help but feel uncomfortable. There was a presence hanging over him - spiteful and intelligent. It [i]liked[/i] that he couldn't see Otota. It sounded ridiculous, but he was convinced that at least some part of the forest had it out for him. 

Then again, maybe he was just starting to go a little crazy. Either was a possibility.

Twenty solid minutes of walking along the stopped Caravan later and he finally caught a glimpse of the familiar shape of their navigator's carriage. A spring entered his step, digitigrade legs easily accelerating him into strides that were surprisingly long for a creature his size, hopping over a small puddle to land just outside the man's rear door.

[color=khaki]"Knock knock! Malleck here! Got your message Athulwin!"[/color] He followed the sentence up with a noise that most who had interacted with him had come to know - [color=khaki]a high-pitched chirp, followed by a quick yip[/color]. Knocking had somewhat baffled the Ainok when he had first joined the caravan - his people's homes were made from hide or bartered fabric, 'knocking' just wasn't something you could do, so instead they used that distinctive call to let people know that someone wanted their attention. Other races, he had quickly learnt, preferred you to bang on a solid object, so he'd split the difference and just said 'knock' these days.