rich magenta glow edges across the western horizon. Casting deep, dark, foreboding shadows within the thickness of the sprawling wood. In a small clearing by a well trodden roadside, many miles from Rottertrend, four wooden wagons, hastily, make camp. Arranged in a horseshoe they form a temporary fortress butted up against the forest's edge.

Dust settles slowly. But it's not the only thing on the air. There's an anxiousness here. A tension. Even the horses are a bit, antsy.

Four people toil around a pit of stone. The fire is low, just big enough for cooking, but not big enough for ambiance, or even for warmth beyond the crude circle of rock. There's no smoke, just a wavering translucence against the now cold dark sky.

"I don't like this spot Wel."

"I hear ya Ter. This slow pace kind of screwed us over."

Spoken with a cautious hush those worried words fall like whispers on the ears of a shade, perched in a tree, a few meters down the road. A head perks. Its eyes piercing through the dark expanse. Those same ears retrain their focus. Not on the source of the words, rather toward an almost imperceptible rustling of earth. There's a movement in the shadows. A misplaced umbrage against the dark blues and browns, Pupils, like four pointed stars, but more feline, open a bit wider.

What do we have here?

Back at the makeshift camp, nine bodies sit around a fire eating stew. Some on the ground, some on rocks or improvised log chairs. Two of this parties members, lost to the shadows of the wood, keep a vigil against creatures of the night.

"You hear that?" Molly inquires, of the bear of a man in charge.

"The silence?" Brahm confirms.

"Yes."

"You're pretty aware for such a young age."

"I may be young but I pay attention. This kind of quiet I felt once before. The night our living arrangement changed, for the better."

"Be ready for cover."

A well placed arrow strikes the wagon behind him.

"Wave! To arms! Watch for snipers."

Three hulking forms break across the path. Covered in fur and patchwork skins. Their yellow eyes glint. A feral cry calls out with blood thirsty intent. They rush the wagons with a lumbering pace. Shield and sword are drawn inside the mock redoubt. The sound of fighting rings out from the trees. Like a tsunami of flesh, three Griseodaem bound to the wagons. One goes silent and crashes to the ground. Its oversized, sickly grey, form rendered lifeless by an arrow to the eye. Brahms challenges the one closest, axe against club. Welfort places himself between the second and his charges, blocking a spear strike with a quick flick of steel. Terrik raises his shield, covering Molly, signaling the others to hide under the closest wagon.

Beyond the circles edge, in the dark of the forest, Mohs is hard pressed. He's stumbled back and slips on wet leaves. Gathering his balance as a second frothing beast makes him its mark. Its all he can do just to dodge as the first one to attack him strikes out with menacing claws. He turns back to the second just in time to see a tree limb sweeping towards his head.

From under his wagon the cook screams as he's pulled by his foot by a sixth that's joined the fray. Flat on his back, he stares up at the face of a creature whose lineage may have been human but now holds little resemblance to its ancestral kin. Its forehead is bulbous. Its teeth jagged and black. It glares back at him with hunger and hate. Then its eyes go dark and the cook watches in horror as the creature closes towards him. Blood flows down its face from Ferril's well placed blow.

Seeing that Terrik has taken to shield, Welfort swings at the nearest of foe. A tan, light-green intrusion enters his vision, an arrow flies, the shooter lands, loud but graceful, on the drovers seat. Another attacker falls to the dirt. A third arrow looses, as Brahms axe catches flesh, the creature staggers, then stumbles, then drops like a stone. Half its torso rendered in two. A wooden shaft deep in its temple.

Mohs, caught alone against two, tucks and rolls, bracing for the hit. He hears a thud and a roar and watches the beast get tackled away. The tree limb skims harmlessly across his shoulder. Heavy footsteps refocus his attention. He turns to one knee and thrusts, driving his sword through flesh and bone. There's a crack behind him to the right, the beasts roar is silenced. He feels the dead weight, of his adversary, press forward and with an instinctive kick he sends it to its back to the ground.

Brahms sharpens his senses. There's a rustle from the treeline. He turns to see a hulking, green beast pushing through a gap, in between the wagons. He raises his axe to bear. "Stop." Molly cries, catching him off guard, "He's a friend." Wary but compliant he lowers his guard.

Catching sight of her the beast gravels, "Molly, hurt?"

"No Malachite, I'm okay." she replies.

He falls to his knees and she embraces him warmly. Even though he still towers over her.

Welfort looks to the archer and nods, "Thank you."

"It's not a bother. But rather boring." She quips, with a humorous tone.

Ferril and Mohs find their way back. Mohs' hand heartily grips Malachite's shoulder, "You saved my ass, thanks."

"Welcome."

The bodies of the dead stalkers have been stripped and searched. Not surprising, nothing of use was found. Even the leathers and furs were, sadly, wanting. The last of them is being unceremoniously tossed down the ridge, carrion left for scavengers. Verbal introductions are made. The conversation turns to familiarity and curiosity.

Brahms eyes up a ring sewn to Em'a's kit belt. "You a Dragon Ranger?" he inquires with a nod.

"You know those assholes?" she smiles.

"Fought with them up near Zermattbitzeli. They're an odd bunch."

"That's an understatement," the olive girl chuckles, "But no, I wasn't one of them. They just Went My Way for a little while."

"They did the same to us for a month or two when we were with the Septum Muros."

Molly gives Brahms an intense quizzical look. "Sanvalburg Castle?" she interrupts, with a bright eyed curiosity.

"Yes. And before you ask, if your dad's named Tug and your mom's named Dora. Yeah we know them." Her expression changes to amused suspicion. Catching the look Brahms smiles and snorts, "That pendant, A Mother's Eyes, belonged to her. And you also have, her eyes. But give me a minute, we'll talk, Right now I need to ask this one, why were you tracking us?"

Em'a just grins, "I wasn't tracking you, I was tracking him," she nods in Molly's direction.

"You were following Malachite?" she retorts protectively.

" Mmmhm. I came upon those footprints a few months back. There was a bit of carnage around them. A whole lot actually. I got curious." She looks at Malachite with a friendly gaze, "You know you should wear shoes, your signatures quite unique."

"Hmmmph, you no shoe, you foot uneek."

"True, but I do wear them from time to time, just to throw off the trail."

"Me tree."

"I noticed that too, Word of advice, go the other direction from where you want to go for awhile. Then head back through the trees."

"Hmmm. Tricky. Like." he leers.

"So Mister Greenskin care to share the story of all that mayhem."

Molly stands, taking his hand, "We'll tell you that story together."