Chapter 8: A Stranger in the Forest

Draggert kneels before a bundle of fresh sticks and kindling, napping flint and steel together and nursing the young, fragile flame that starts up. Soon, the party sits around a roaring fire.

All around, the hum of insects mingles with the swaying hush of the trees in a light breeze, and the pop of the flames licking the dead wood. The forest canopy crowds around, leaving a small hole where the stars shine in a black sky. The temperature drops to bearable, almost pleasant levels.

Jorr sits down last, with a groan, having scouted the perimeter of the camp several times in the dark.
Jorr: It's clear. Hopefully that fire'll keep the ogres and owlbears away.

Keith lays out several books and writing supplies near to the fire.
Keith: I really must study. Draggert, do you want me to read some of that book to you, first?

Throrin has removed his armor, looking half the size without it. He sets about the task of polishing it and his shield by the firelight, hammering out small dents with his road armorer's kit.

Draggert sits cross-legged near Keith. He uses a bone needle and a ball of strong twine to sew up the puncture marks in his gatorhide armor.

Keith tries to translate some of the more difficult passages into something Draggert can understand.

Draggert nods along with Keith as he reads.
Draggert: Oh. I should only shake elf's hand if he offers, and then only shake gentle and not hard to crush bone like Draggert usually shake?

Throrin scoffs at the lesson.
Throrin: Listen to me, Draggert. The only thing you need to know about elves is they aren't all they're cracked up to be. They look pretty, sure, but they have no concept of honor or teamwork.

Draggert: Really? I only meet two elves. One save me from sinking death sand. Other help out in big bar fight.

Keith frowns at Throrin.
Keith: They're not all bad. They're about as alright as anyone else, really.

Throrin: Well, at least if we dwarves don't like ye, you'll know it. We're honest folk. Elves will smile and embrace you when you're around, and then slide a dagger in your back while you sleep.

Draggert: I have elf axe as gift. It good and light.

Throrin scoffs again.
Throrin: Bah, for an axe you can't beat dwarven for balance and sharpness! Second only to orcish, surprisingly enough, though it'd be cruder and heavier. Elves make good swords, though, especially the small and light ones. Still, they're best used for skewering rats.

Corrigan and Jorr sit a ways apart from the fire, the better to keep watch out into the still, darkened trees. When they speak, their voices are low.

Jorr: I can tell you know how to run a trail. You're a fellow woodsman.

Corrigan: I've been called that before, yes.

Jorr: Well, it's always good to see someone who knows their stuff.

Corrigan: How long have you been out here?

Jorr suddenly looks much older. In the orange tint of the firelight, you can see deep creases and wrinkles on his eyes and forehead.
Jorr: A good, long while. Since I was about your age, probably, so...about twenty years?

Corrigan seems impressed.
Corrigan: I don't imagine you get much company?

Jorr: Nah. I got my dogs, though. I had a city life once. A wife, house, and all that. It wasn't for me. I prefer to be alone. It just makes life a hell of a lot simpler.

Corrigan nods and casts a glance at the others around the fire.
Corrigan: I can definitely understand that. You know, you remind me of an old friend of mine. I'll watch your back on the field.

Jorr nods appreciatively.

The fire gives a violent pop, sending a shower of warm embers drifting high up to the canopy where they fizzle into emptiness. It seems to silence everyone and, one by one, each of them retires for the night.

The warm summer night passes uneventfully, and the rays of dawn find the party all awake. The air is humid, with the ozone tang that hints a heavy rain is not far off. Corrigan pours water onto the last coals of the fire, as Jorr unwraps a handkerchief full of cold biscuits and bacon.

Jorr: Eat up. We got a date with some wretched hobgobs here soon, I'll wager.

The group nods their collective assent, eating fast and donning armor, readying weapons.

Keith mutters.
Keith: Nothing we haven't handled before, I suppose.
He does his best to smooth his hair and his robes out before travel begins.

The group sets out into the deep Witchwood once more, and they have only been travelling a few hours when they see a figure on the trail ahead. It is humanoid, and walking towards them with an awkward, shambling gait.

Keith squints.
Keith: It's an elf, I think. He looks wounded.

Draggert growls.
Draggert: It could be trick.

Throrin spits, and scowls down the trail.

The group stands, tense and waiting, until the figure is close. It is a male elf, around five feet tall, with a slim build and short, disheveled black hair. He has a slight tan, blue eyes, and might pass for a human save for his prominent pointed ears. He is currently smeared in dried blood, multiple arrows protruding from his side and back. He stumbles along, barely coherent.

Keith: Oh my goodness!
Keith rushes up to the man.

Elf: Help...

Draggert moves to stand near Keith. The elf collapses to his knees in front of them. They stare at his wounds for a time, unsure how to proceed. Keith grabs onto one of the arrow shafts, and the elf cries out immediately. He releases it.

Keith: These are hobgoblin arrows. Draggert, could you rip them out?

Draggert frowns and reaches for one of the black-feathered arrow shafts.

Throrin: Don't touch him!
He spits and curses under his breath as he approaches.
Throrin: Damned idiot. In these woods alone! What did I just tell them about elves?

Throrin holds out a calloused hand and says a prayer. A blue light suffuses the elf as the arrows slide gently from his flesh, clattering to the damp ground. He blesses him once more, until all of his wounds are closed up with fresh, pink skin. Throrin stands aside and crosses his arms on his chest, scowling at the elf the entire time.

The elf gingerly feels the places where the arrows were. Satisfied, he stands up straight and speaks.
Elf: Thank you very much, strangers. I am Valandil, trailworn traveler and bow-for-hire. I ran afoul of some damned hobgoblins up at Vraath Keep yesterday. I got a few of them, but they volleyed me good and left me for dead. Luckily, I regained consciousness and slipped away.

Draggert squints at the elf's face.
Draggert: Wait, you! You in town with big bell, eight full moons back?

Valandil looks at Draggert, recognition flaring up in his bright, blue eyes.
Valandil: Yes! You're that brute that started that tavern brawl!

Draggert laughs a big belly laugh.
Draggert: I no start! You know I no start!

Valandil opens his mouth, pointing at a prominent gap in his front teeth.
Valandil: Well, I got in a bit of trouble in that fight, no matter who started it.

Draggert digs in his bag with vigor, pulling out a small piece of twine wrapped around a single front tooth.

Valandil frowns.
Valandil: Oh, wow, you kept it?! How crude.

Draggert nods happily.
Draggert: It make good trade for telling story.

Draggert turns excitedly to the rest of the party.
Draggert: Everyone, this no trick. This other elf friend from town! We eat rainbow colored bread and Draggert make joke there might be gold on bottom.

Valandil chuckles.
Valandil: Oh boy, not my finest hour, that.

Keith introduces himself in elven.
Keith (Elven): Good sir, since we so fortuitously met you here, might we offer you the prospect of revenge? We plan to give those hobgoblins up at the keep a sound beating.

Valandil nods.
Valandil: I would like nothing better. Well met to all of you, then. What was your name again? Draggert?

Valandil moves to each member of the group, introducing himself and shaking hands.

Throrin looks at the elf's hand as it is offered. He nods to him, nothing more.

Jorr: Nice to meet you and all, but we'd best get going. Goblins and their kind are lazy and sluggish in the early hours. Now is our time to strike.

In agreement, the group continues down the road, one member stronger.