Where It Starts

[Dasquian the Elf]

Though it's late in the day, the long road ahead shows no end in sight. A lone wagon, drawn by a solitary cart horse, trundles through the ruts in the dirt. The wagon is laden with half a dozen wine barrels, whose contents of which slosh and gurgle whenever the wagon rocks from side to side. Flanking the wagon are a pair of riders, their backs straight and eyes alert, in spite of the hours they've spent on the road. Sitting squeezed between a couple of the barrels is an elf, his eyes squeezed shut in what would appear to be meditative concentration. Without opening his eyes, he calls out to group riding on and around the wagon:

"How much further?"

[Ryloth Grimhammer]

"Patience, good Elf. Each step, every mile, can be a adventure all in itself and a lesson to be learned if you have the eyes to see it." One of the riders looked over at the Elf trapped between the Barrels, his hard brown eyes overshadowed by his thick brow and massive eyebrows. The Dwarf rider looked small on the horse, even by Dwarven standards. The lack of thick platemail, a massive helmet, and a full arsenal of weapons would make him look puny alongside his kinsmen. In the place of armor he wore a course robe of earthen tones, and for weapons he had nought but a warhammer at his side and black metal gauntlets that reeked of magic. Tattoos covered the body and head, almost as if trying to cover the scars and pits of battle that covered his body. At least, the parts that weren't hidden behind a massive braided beard. "We should reach Stonekeep on the morrow."