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A natural gap between two mountains, the Telmaar Pass was the easiest way to travel between the eastern and western part of the continent. The slopes of the mountains to either side were covered with trees which stretched all the way to the edges of the road though the center of the pass.

As the caravan wound it's way along the road, the guards hired to protect it kept a sharp lookout. It was well known that bandits lived among the trees and would occasionally attack caravans that seemed to have good pickings. And there were rumors that monsters live in the mountains and that they would attack as well. But so far everything had been peaceful.

There were the usual mix of people one tended to see in a group like this - merchants seeking profits, people seeking new and better lives in a different place, and some who were just seeking.

Among the latter was Eona Morrit. A half elf who no longer fit into the human village where she was raised, she was seeking somewhere that she could fit into the world and always in the back of her mind was the idea that maybe she might be able to meet the elf mother who had abandoned her.

Her current place in the world was riding on the back of one of the merchant's carts. They had agreed that if she would use her skills as a Druid to assist if any trouble arose then he would give her a lift. She tried to ignore the bumps as she mended a rip in one of her spare tunics. All of her clothes were of good quality and would last a long time if she took good care of them like her father had taught her. As she sewed she hummed a little tune and swayed her head, the highlights in her red hair shining in the sunlight filtering through the trees.

Jack trudged along the dirt trail that crossed through the few towns scattered around the area. He had left one of those towns just that morning, or rather he was booted out by the strong foot of their half-orc leader. Jack could still feel the bruising under his left eye and at spots on both his ribs. He didn't have a mirror, but he knew they had already begun to blossom with greens and purples. He was a professional at getting his ass kicked by now.

He thought things like, ‘How was I supposed to know she was your daughter?’ and ‘She came onto me!’, before his inner rant was interrupted by the distant sounds of clopping hooves and wheels. He stopped, stepped to one side of the trail, and waited alertly, one gloved hand hovering just above the hilt of his sword. The humming reached his ears and sounded eerie to him as he waited alone among the trees.

When the cart came into view, it was clear to Jack that it belonged to a couple of merchants. He mistakenly assumed that the red haired lass in the back of the cart was a merchant. His heart lurched for a moment at the sight of her, until he noticed her pointed ears peeking out from her unruly hair. Not human- That was good. No setting off his curse today! There were many non-human beings in this area of the world, something Jack was becoming increasingly grateful for.

“Good noon to you,” Jack said to the cart’s driver with a nod. He asked him for a ride to where he was going and offered 10 silver, to which the driver agreed and told him to sit in the back with the “other one”.
Jack looked back at the elf like something had just dawned on him and then he thanked the man and joined her, taking the seat on the opposing side and smelling like sweat, booze, and shame.

“And good noon to you,” he told her, eyeing her hands if she had continued to sew. He wasn't planning on sharing the reason he needed a lift and so he made sure not to ask about her’s either.

She sat upon the burgundy vardo wagon, a small house on wheels trundling along the dirt road. The back of the wagon featured a small door and a delightful small window that allowed a person inside to see who might be knocking.

The wagon's arched roof was topped in supplies, stopped from sliding off by a wooden rim that the crates and containers were tied to.

At the forefront of the wagon an elven woman sat atop the bench, loosely holding the reins of the old draft horse that pulled the vardo. Lounging beneath a fabric umbrella that kept the sun off of her porcelain skin the woman, scarcely more than a girl really, drew her long golden yes back over her shoulder. She was dressed in a black silk bedlah, a loose fitting set of pantaloons and sleeves that were slit at the sides and a leather laced bustier meant to lift her generous bosom.

The bench being say the top of the wagon offered the girl an exceptional view over the more practical farmer's wagons but the view did not seem to be enough to allay her boredom for she held a book in one hand and reached for a hookah's with the same hand that held the twins and inhaled the smoke of the smoldering herbs within.

The note crinckled beneath Tonaf's broad fingers, its creases marred the vellum stained fabric like a crone's skin, long worn from over-wrapping and over-reading as a pang of trepidation speared into his chest. His seated legs were numbed even as he ricketed back and forth within the rumbling caravan, the clear sky outside breathed light into the little room, hardly providing the comfort that it should have under any other circumstance. Now the light only fed Ton a grim reminder of what awaited him, and though he and big brother Teddley had been parted for almost a decade, he still remembered the dour disposition of the man who would leave the Odarg hovel to pursue a career in priesthood.

"...My village is gone, my sons and daughters are missing, I fear that they are dead... ...my body is sick with the corruption, my youngest brother..." Tonaf's eyes shot a rouge line toward the end of the note. "...May this letter receive you post-haste, and take great care, for evil has sent forth jackals within the shapes of men."

Tonaf slipped the note back into a pouch by his worn belt. He rested a free hand upon the haft of his lumberaxe, a keening gleam glistening from the blade's newly sharpened edge, fresh from the whetstone. With what money he could afford, Tonaf had taken a few precautions before giving the Odarg hovel a sad farewell. He wore a dark leather jerkin over the grassy shade of his felt fleece, a studded shield that the Wood Dwarf barely knew how to use hung tight over his back. He'd keep it slung there; it felt far more secure keeping his rear safeguarded. Hunting the larger game of Dukewood felt far more comfortable under the sanctuary of a two-handed axe. If luck was on his side, he would not have to make use of it. He would not meet these 'jackals' brother Teddley had referred to, and he would return back to Dukewood with newfound solace.

He stroked his cropped beard as he pondered the matter darkly, the rumblings outside agitating his thoughts. Men had stared curiously at his stature, short of height, though broad of a muscular width which few folk could compare with. Travellers seldom rode through Dukewood, those who did dubbed him 'The Wood Dwarf' for a reason, though it was a name that Ton felt no attachment to; he'd never even met another of his mountain bred folk, and understood no such bond nor cared to do so.

Picking absentmindedly at the knittings of his newly bought jerkin did little to still the anxiety. Tonaf was not afraid of other men, jackals or not, but the question of Teddley's poor health weighed heavy on his mind. Until the caravans came to a halt, he would not stir from his reverie.

There was yet amongst the caravan, nestled amingst the hay for the horses was another she-elf, peacefully dozing while the journey was underway. She had bronze skin and hair of platinum, an exotic sight in these parts, scant pieces of leather barely contained her ridiculously curvaceous form and preserved what little modesty she had left. A gleaming greatsword of preposterous width lay beside her, dwarven runes of power lining the blade...

Whilst she joined this caravan for transport she had struck a simple bargain with the Packmaster to provide security in exchange for tagging along- particularly at night hence why she slept now. She cared not where she would end up, only that she got there faster than on foot.

((OOC: Mounted raiders?

Much further ahead on the path approached a multitude of hooves clopping against the road, sourced from a party of three Cossackian horsemen. All armed with Shashkan sabres hidden away in magnificently studded sheathes of firey Rubies, aquatic Saphires, and most commonly, oakey colored Amber. Each man wore a decorative attire of linen vyshyvanka shirts that had been intricately sewn with threads of deep palated color, greyed hide pants, and a pair of dark leather boots. Their hair was long and well braided, adorned with silvery wire and small bone (seemingly that of avian species) and long curled mustaches rested above their lips, giving them almost a jolly impression. All three men spoke and joked as if they’d just returned from having the time of their lives. They rode forth in a formation of a triangle, one leading and two behind.

The first one would notice was their horses. The two in the back seemed to be of the Trotter Species, one an ebony black while the other a chestnut red, however the horse leading was something out of a fairytale.

It was a Knabstrupper. And yet, a very oversized one at that, as if the breed wasn’t rare enough. It was perhaps the height of a man and a half and seemed to have the strength of ten. And atop this mighty beast was an awkwardly looking fellow with a missing ear. However despite his apparent misfortune he seemed the jolliest of them all, laughing and rolling without a worry in the world.

However all this stopped once the three caught sight of the wagon. Their fixation of fun turned into a fixation of worry as they rode past with their heads down low.

Each offered up a faint, “Good day to you”
to the members of the wagon and peered up with shameful eyes as if they were afraid. They seemed prepared to take the harassment of a lifetime for they knew they were not supposed to be on this road.

..

((Okey-dokey

((Good idea