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"Agnar Valbrandr, if you wish it," Agnar adds. He also repeats Lorgan's Sindarin greeting, although his pronunciation is not quite as smooth.
"And, aye, Guthrim, aye. I've had more than my share of the thrice-cursed out-of-doors for the now, for all that I slept well last night."
He purposefully doesn't mention Olneth. Lorgan handled that, as is his wont, and there was no reason to tread on that ground again.
The spindly elf nods, with a smile. "Let us get out of the rain." Instead of leading you back over the bridge, she instead walks towards a set of stables. Opening teh door, you find a trio of slightly mournful looking mules, chewing at the fodder. Calanthas nods. "As per our agreement with the Foresters of Rhosgobel, they are laden up with the goods. All you need to to is escort them there." She ruffles the ears of the nearest mule fondly. It gives her a stoic look and keeps eating.
"Not exactly a warm fire and soft chair." Guthrim says looking around the stable. "But at least it's out of the rain."
Seeing the sad looking mules, he tsks a few times and then grabs one of the brushes hanging on the wall.
"How about a bit of a treat and a brushing lads." He says to the creatures pulling an apple he'd grabbed from breakfast from his pocket. Slicing it up he offers the mules the special treat after giving each one a quick rubdown with the brush and checking them over to see how well they might fare on the journey.
Satisfied that he has a good idea of the mules fitness, he turns to the others. "Seems the Axe didn't want me heading back home empty handed." He says with a chuckle. "I must admit I was beginning to dread the waiting, but it'll be good to have a bit of company on the road. Mirkwood can be a forlorn and lonely place for a traveler on his own, as I'm sure you all know."
"So when do we leave?"
Faem finally musters the gumption to introduce herself just as the rest of the group concludes pleasantries and retreats across the bridge to the barn. She scolds herself for poor timing - it wasn't that she was overlooked, she just missed the moment. Anyway, she would assert herself in short order.
She marvels at Guthrim's appraisal of the mules, her own experience with such animals being practically none. These beasts looked weighted down, hardly capable of the journey. Could a mule outrun a demon of the forest, as they so recently had to do? Suddenly the task seemed hopeless. And yet, The Axe bid her to do it, so she must try.
"Guthrim, a pleasure t'meet ya. I'm Faem, friend o' free peoples. Ya have t'look a summun ta'can handle these beasts, n'we're sure glad of it. Welcome t'our company! But how'n d'ya 'xpect we'll get through t'forest wit' them, alive n'such?"
Calanthas gives a small elegant bow. "I have no doubt you will want to be on your way shortly. Guthrim, many thanks for enlivening our company with your stay with us. I will treasure your carvings."
With that she slips away gracefully.
"May-haps we can stay a bit longer," says Faem to Calanthas. She's in no hurry to be on the road, and would prefer to explore Lake Town and the surrounding area for a few days. "And then t'other way 'round, ud'be my pref'rence."
Guthrim's cheeks go red when Calanthas mentions his carvings. "I am glad they bring a bit of light into your days, my lady." He says still blushing, but obviously grateful for the compliment from one who has likely seen some of the greatest works of craftsmanship in all of Middle Earth. "Many thanks for allowing me to shelter under your roof through these cold damp months." He adds with a graceful bow. "Until we meet again, may your heart always find joy and laughter."
Having voiced his farewells, Guthrim nods at the hobbit's suggestion. "It's a bit longer going through the Mountain Narrows, and not without its own risks. But if you just finished a hard passage through the wood, then I'll abide your choice." The forester says with a smile, just happy enough to be putting his feet back on the road again.
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Agnar taps his chin in ulfish thought.
"Methinks, good Faem, that we must needs choose how to spend the time. For time we have, but not lots of it. If 'twould be your preference to spend days in town, then we must needs go the straighter way through Mirkwood, lest we arrive with supplies but now Too Late.
So too, methinks we could take the time to go around, and such is my preference, but if doing so then then we ought do it now, upon this hour, for such will take in itself.
And that is my preference, for, it seems, if one is given the choice, I would turn down a sour dinner but with chance at dessert instead for a sumptuous dinner that is worth getting on for."
Faem bows to the majority, and sets her thinking on the return trip. They'll be avoiding most of the forest on the way back. That's something, at least. Not that she's too afraid to go that route - no! - but the mules present a challenge that would be difficult even if there were no monsters trying to kill them every few days. And who knows what mischief those shady elves would try!
"Let's have one hearty meal from the Inn before we set out. Another hour is all I ask."
"Haha! Always best to start a long journey on a full stomach." Guthrim says, agreeing with the hobbit. "Besides maybe the sun'll decide to poke its head through the clouds if we give it a little more time."
Lorgan bids Calanthas a courteous farewell, before tending to their newly-acquired mules.
"Ah!" He pulls his hand back just in time as one of the mules (Nestor, presumably?) tries to bite him. He hastily stumbles a few steps back. "Perhaps the duty of looking after our new companions would be best shouldered by another."
Lorgan is the member of teh group who first discovers Nestor's hostility to everyone who isn't him. The Dúnedain avoids the bite, but as he stumbles out the way, the mule ably turns himself around and unleashes a kcik that sends Lorgan stumbling into the stable floor.
Violet restores order with a heavy sigh that indicates that yes, she will do what you cannot, O mortal, but it is very trying for her. Jasper gives Lorgan an affectionate nuzzle as he picks himself up off the floor, before wandering over and doing the same to each of the rest of you. His ears twitch with anticipation of the coming journey. What fun to make new friends and travel to new places! Calanthas and her aides very helpfully spent this morning loading the mules up for you, so you are ready to move. The realisation that you will have to unload them every evening and then redo it every morning for several weeks is daunting. At leat your arms will get a good workout. With that, you are on the way out of Lake-Town and across the bridge. Adventure beckons.
A Short Cut to Reedmace
The days are warmer now, and spring is definitely promising at some point very soon to give way to the joys of summer. The crocuses and snowdrops are long gone, and the daffodils are starting to give way to other flowers, magnolia flourishes from the trees while creeping honeysuckle provides a haven for the bees. But your serach is for other, rarer plants.
It seems clear to anyone who gives it some thought that the Long Lake itself is far too well-populated and well-worked to allow something as rare as reedmace to establish itself. Your hope then is that the edges of teh Long Marsh might prove a more fruitful hunting-ground, and it is in that direction that you lead your three mules. Taking them off the beatn track is harder work, espeicalliy with the load they are carrying, but it isn't as if they have a choice. Violet's sighs every evening as you unload her pack would bring a tear to the eye of anyone who cared, while Nestor contents himself with biding his time for now, an evil gleam in his eye which tells you that oh, yess, you will smart for this, you impudent children. One day very soon. Any day now.
As you skirt the edges of the marsh, the trees grow thicker and the flowers start to disappear, replaced by long creeping trailers. Luckily Faem spots in time that some of these are not all they seem: Gallows-weed, a sinister tree-hanging plant, which coils itself around a victim’s neck like a snake, and then pulls up to strangle them. An old souvenir of home, on this side of the great forest. You carefully backtrack around it, much to Violet's clear displeasure at having to retrace her steps.
As the day fades and night starts to draw in, Agnar spots what looks like a good place to camp: he has noticed that what you initially thought was a tumbledown pile of rocks is in fact masonry, carved in the dwarven style. You have found an old dwarven outpost, built long before the coming of Smaug and which the dwarves of Erebor held to keep watch over the waters of the Long Marsh. It promises solid walls and a roof over your heads. The horrible truth of it dawns on you slowly as you approach: it did not fall to the passage of time, but to dragon-fire. The ground beneath your feet is rippled and puddled where the stone was melted centuries ago. The echoes of teh dragon's rage and its lust for destruction, and the helpless terror of the doomed guards, seems to shout from the ground and the building.
Worse yet, you are not alone! Evil things have taken nest in this refuge, larger than crows and with malice gleaming in their eyes. Lorgan identifies them as Crebain, spies and messengers of the Enemy. A small flock takes to the air, readying themselves to dive on you as they shriek and caw, rending the air with the sounds of their malice.
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As they prepare to leave, Guthrim pauses at one of his favorite merchants shops. Ducking inside, he adds up the few coins left in his pocket. Just enough. He then grabs a jar of candied honey and a sack of three dozen winter apples. Once the transaction is complete he hurries to catch up with the others where he deftly slices one of the apples and shares it out to the mules. Even Nestor. "We'll make these last as long as we can, but might as well start the journey with a treat." He says to all three mules. He is sure to maintain the promise as the first days of the journey get under way.
As they trek through the marsh, the jovial forester happily observes the signs of oncoming summer. At one point he cuts several short lengths of blooming honeysuckle. Hanging the vines from his pack, he lets the blooms dry as he walks. Once they are dry enough he plucks the blooms from the old vine and adds them to his tea tin to give the brew a little sweeter aroma and flavor.
His mood changes as he and his companions discover the ruins.
"The dragon is gone, but his foul legacy still blights so much of this land." He says shaking his head sadly at the melted stone and thinking upon the fate of the dwarves who once watched over this lonely place.
When the shadow ravens burst forth from their hidden rookery, Guthrim draws forth his great bow and sends a feathered shaft streaking toward one of the bigger Crebain. It strikes true causing a burst of cawing and feathers.
"Begone servants of evil!" He shouts. "The dragon is dead and you're evil master and his minions are no longer tolerated upon these lands!"
Following the fine meal at the Inn, Faem follows Guthrim into the store. Having loosed 3 arrows on the trip thus far, she looks to replenish her stock.
She happily sets to walking alongside the mules. She is careful not to get too close, having only a passing familiarity with the beasts that tower over her. They seem to be well-suited for the task, and the young hobbit wonders at the design of such animals; were they created for this purpose, to carry the burdens of others? Do all animals have such specific purposes? What is the purpose of a hobbit, then, beyond burrowing into the earth and escaping the sight of larger folk?
Maybe that is purpose enough.
The presence of Dwarven ruins does not surprise her, but the puddles of rock is both fascinating and terrifying. She looks at the mountain to the north and shudders. Having no concept of dragons, she sees now the devastation one can cause.
But the monster that caused this destruction was itself killed years past, and there is an ominous peace that Faem is untroubled by. Her home, so close to the fetid marshes and the lingering stink of death, is a much less hospitable place than these ruins.
The peace is shattered by the screams of the birds. Her muscles twitch and her bow is instantly brought to bear. She dives behind a partially immolated pillar, relying on stealth to gain advantage against these fiends.
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Agnar is as anxious to leave the bustling town as he is to avoid the ill-tempered beasts of burden. The town is where he grew up, and where he had good memories--memories now fully corrupted by the ghost of Kara that he tries to not see behind every familiar brick and cart. He is earnest in trying to put his old life behind him, and knows that he'll go no further along that path by staying where he was.
And though he could probably save the mules so long as they had one brain lobe still talking to another, he has no need to relish them in life.
Agnar knows of this place because he came here. He was happy then. Kara and he spent their first night apart from the city and...together...here. It was a good day. So good that the shadow of the great wyrm touched them not, and the ghost that haunts this place will brook no rival.
His reverie is broken by the woodshaper's call and a great ruffle of wings. Habit long forged in the dark of mirkwood guides his hand to ready his own lesser bow and left forth a shaft, such as he can.
Does he hear Kara's hand guiding his arrow to strike at those that would mean him ill?
Lorgan sprawls in the muck of the stable, looking up ruefully at the mule that put him there. He gets up, brushing the worst of the dirt off his clothes as best he can. "Yes, I think I definitely made an impression on him." He rubs at the bruise that is forming. "Or perhaps the other way around?"
His spirits are warmed by the return to the wilderness, which is where he was raised. It doesn't hurt that the weather is better, too. His eyes widen though as Faem points out the dangerous plant they were about to walk into. "Keen are the eyes of Hobbits! Or, perhaps, dull are the eyes of Men." He gives her a smile.
His blood runs cold as they all suddenly realise the implications of what they are seeing, the effect of dragon fire after all these years. "No wonder nothing grows near!" He is about to muse further on the effects of the Enemy's presence, but the chattering of the birds saves the rest of the group from his attempts at philosophical profundity.
"Those are Crebain! Servants of the Enemy, fell messengers of evil. Watch your eyes, that is where they will strike." He looses his bow, seeing the arrow hit true.
Faem's stealth is too good even for the soaring birds, and one of them gives an indignant and very final skwawk as it plummets to the ground, an arrow in its gullet. Guthrim, Agnar and Lorgan all land hits but they fail to make a kill, these winged furies are evilly resilient. Tehre is a massed chatter before they dive in at you, scratching and clawing at your faces. Everyone is caught by them, and you are all soon bleeding from the wounds although not seriously.
Guthrim ducks and dodges trying to avoid the attacking birds. His movements make aiming a challenge but he still manages to snap of a shot with his bow before another creature is flapping in his face.
With no place to go now that the birds are on them, Faem drops her bow and remembers Agnar's skill at fighting with both hands. With her short sword in her right and a dagger in the left, she lunges for the nearest creature of shadow.
Lorgan flinches back instinctively as the bird rakes his cheek, drawing blood. Letting his now-useless bow fall to the ground, he draws his sword and launches a counter-attack.
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"Gah! Ow ow ow ow ow!" Agnar yells, his mind still not quite catching up that he's being attacked by birds.
"Are we really being attacked by birds?" he yells, the pain and confusion loosening his grip on his tongue.
As the birds settle into fisticuffs, he drops the bow (that he never does like using anyway) and draws his sharp knife. It's main function had been to carve up birds, so it seems only fitting it try to do the same thing now.
The sudden swooping attack of the crebain seems to have startled most of the group, and your attacks miss. Only Agnar strikes, cutting one of the birds down. In return, the birds continue to screech and scratch at you. Only Lorgan is unhurt, the Dúnedain's skill against creatures of teh Shadow clearly evident.
Lorgan manages to grab hold of his shield, using it to guard his face as best he can. Thus protected, he is more willing to use his sword for attack rather than defence, landing a hit on one of his attackers.
Faem scowls, more at her own lack of effectiveness with her blades than the persistence of the vile crows. She tries again with increased determination.
Standing firm, Guthrim drops his bow and slips his scimitar free of its sheath. Quickly he lashes out and catches the wing of the big raven he hit before. It the brief moment of respite bought with his flurry, he slides his shield into place adding a bit of extra cover to keep the creatures away.
Several of teh evil birds fall to your blades, but the remainer continue to attack, doing their best to injure you. Gurthrim manages to protect himself, but everyone else collects more scratches.
Faem deftly carves through one of the pesky flying rats and wings the other. Now she brings both blades down onto the last creature.
The bird explodes in a mist of blood and cloud of feathers.
With the cover of his shield, Guthrim finds a little better footing and is able to truly step into his next blade flourish. He catches the bigg bird with a back handed feint and many black feathers fly as the real strike connects.
Lorgan does his best to protect himself, but sword and shield don't work well defensively against birds - or at least, if they do he hasn't worked out a strategy yet.
Or course, sometimes attack is the best form of defence. He strikes another of the crebain dead, its mangled corpse landing on the dragon-melted rock with a wet thud.
The companions rapidly dispose of the remaining opponents, until only one crebain remains. It gives a cawing shriek of rage as its nestbrood is cut down. "Fools! You petty, wingless fools!" Its wings beat rapidly as it beats a hasty retreat.
It soars rapidly into the sky, circlinig once above you to rain down threats and insults. "I am Eyebiter, Eágbitar in your petty language, and I will have my revenge!" With another beat of its wings it disappears into the sky.
"Go suck a worm." Mutters Guthrim as he sheaths his sword and picks up the great bow at his feet. For a moment, the forester contemplates the distance to the shadow bird, but then just shakes his head and loosens the string on the bow.
Dabbing his sleeve at one of the scratches on his cheek, he taps one of the fallen birds with his toe.
"I guess it's squab for dinner tonight" Although he really wasn't sure how the carrion birds would taste.
Lorgan wipes his sword clean before sheathing it. He too looks up at the retreating crebain. "I hope we will not rue letting that one escape." But it's out of bowshot; there's nothing to be done.
He wipes a trickle of blood from his forehead, where it was starting to run down his face, and shakes his head at Guthrim's comment, smiling at the joke. "I really would not. Let them lie where they fell, evil creatures." His eyes brighten as he looks at the ruins. "This place is fell indeed and the Shadow lies heavy upon it. Still, we should investigate the ruins - if only to see what these creatures were doing there."
"Aye, you've probably the right of it Lorgan." Guthrim says. "It's just growing up under the eaves of Mirkwood and in the East Bight, my grandsire always used to say, 'Never pass by a meal if you've the opportunity lad. Might be the last one that comes your way for days.'"
"Still I doubt even the old man meant to get sustenance from creatures such as these."
Hearing her companions talk down about the lowly crow in such a fashion, Faem feels embarrassed.
"T'ere na s'bad if'n ya boil'm prop'ly," she says in defense of a common meal in the marshlands she calls home. "My Da makes a root stew with'm. Quite tasty!"
She sets her mind to investing the ruins with the others.
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"I think most anything can be palatable if you boil it long enough," Agnar takes up the line of thought seamlessly. "I've heard of certain persons that even make a stew out of grass and the like, though they are quite careful to boil it for a number of hours. Of course if it goes for that long one should wonder if it reduces to a kind of paste?
And, yes, I too wonder how the birds of ill-fate would taste, though, so too, I wouldn't test that. Evil AND sentient? Best left to lot, or to animals with a less discerning palate.
Um, if we have injury mayhap it would be best to rest oh fiddlesticks she's already gone off."
Deciding it's better to go than remain Agnar aids with the exploration.
"Haha! Stews can be made of just about anything tis true." Guthrim laughs. "Why it was common enough for my mother and aunts to throw anything from the larder that was verging on spoiled into a stew and then add plenty of salt and rosemary which grows like a weed in those parts. For most of my youth I didn't know there were other tastes beyond rosemary." He adds still smiling. With a quick whistle he calls Grimm to his side so that he and the big hound follow Faem and the others into the ruin.
The once molten rock is slippery underfoot, making the going difficult. Unless you have four legs of course. Jasper prances around with excitement, while Nestor tries to bite anyone who is paying too much attention to their footing and not enough to thier surroundings. The ancient watchtower is a sorry ruin of its past self, a colleciton of tumbled stones and fallen masonry. The remainig structure has two walls and part of a ceiling, which is where the crebain have obviously been nesting. Here and there amid the bird droppings you see the bones and skulls of many creatures, mostly sheep and cattle that strayed too far, but there's the occasional humanoid bone to remind you of what your fate might have been.
Buried deep at the back, beneath a thick layer of guano, Faem's keen eyes spot the glint of metal. This watchtower held no silver or gold, but there was an armoury, long ago. A few salveagable pieces remain for those brave enough to claim them.
Or maybe it's just a trick of the light.
"How about a bit of a treat and a brushing lads." He says to the creatures pulling an apple he'd grabbed from breakfast from his pocket. Slicing it up he offers the mules the special treat after giving each one a quick rubdown with the brush and checking them over to see how well they might fare on the journey.
[dice=Animal Handling]1d20+4
Violet sighs heavily as Guthrim tries to feed her. She accepts the apple as the tribute that is her payment for carrying the burden of the world on her shoulders. Jasper has a new best friend! Oh wow, apples! My favourite! He tries to lick Guthrim's face to show his affection. Nestor takes the appl the way a mob boss receies a gift from an enemy: you bring me gifts, a sign of respcet. This is good. I shall kill you last, and quickly.
"Eh? What's there? Something of actual intrest?" Guthrim says to Faem, seeing the hobbit take a sudden interest in the dark, smelly corner.
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"Ha! Too true about stews, good Guthrim! My favorite trick, when it was my turn too cook, was to root about the larder for the worst meat, stuff that was already brown and about to turn...or, perhaps, even a bit more along on the 'turning scale' of things.
Then I would get from the market this ground, brown seed, and mix it with meat, add whatever veggies were to hand with a squadron of cut potatoes (with the skin, for that is where the vitamins live, O Best Beloved) and, of course, salt.
Everyone crowed at the taste! O, you must have worked all day and with the choicest cuts, they all cried. But never did they learn my secret weapon. Can't even recall the name of the spice now. Coom-something.
Oh-oh, be careful there...pony." Agnar chides at the biting pony. He called them all 'pony' because for the life him he couldn't remember their names. A month on the road and that might change, he wondered.
He entered the ruins reluctantly. His own personal ghost still held sway here, and the place needed no help becoming even less joyous.
He stepped gingerly amongst the piles of droppings, and might have let escape a girlish scream at the sign of a skull grinning unblinkingly back at him.
"What do we here?" he moaned, coming closer to Faem. "We should really just g--."
He stood frozen. Motionless. A man entranced. His eyes were fixed upon a point low down, a thing buried deep in the mucky-muck. How long did he stand there? A moment? An hour? A week? Looking back upon the experience he could not have said, not for his weight in silver.
Slowly he stalked forward. The ginger feet that a moment ago had stepped gracefully away from piles of steaming offal now strode uncaring into squishing, slimey black pools of unknown and best un-spoken of foulness.
"O, look at you..." he breathes, his hand reaching in to a lump of filth. With a strong, sure grip his hand grasps...something. Only the smallest glint in the wane light leads one to think that it is not just some stick caught in the untold sewage.
His hand comes out, and he stares agape at the black and dripping thing he holds. Using his own tunic he wipes off great streaks of gore, leaving strong smudges on his clothing, but, eventually, he uncovers...just a sword.
Aye, the blade, though hardly clean, is still sound of wind and limb. A certain thickness to the blade and a length to the haft mark it no mere doily meant to never leave the practice yard. This is a warrior's weapon. A slayer of men and beasts. Broadsword.
Still does he gaze, a man fixed, his brain too awhirl--or too frozen--to give answer to Guthrim's querry. 'These runes...I...more,' he thinks, still a'wonder. Slowly he turns to exit the dank sepulcher, to examine his warprize in better light, and give more efforts in its cleaning.
"Oh ho! Now that's quite a beauty." Guthrim says nodding at the blade Agnar pulls from the muck. "And it seems she's a little sister here." He adds scrunching up his face at the vile stuff covering the blade. Unsuccessful at keeping the disgusting goop off his boots and hands, he does manage to free another sword from its inglorious prison.
Once free, the foul offal almost slides off the short blade of its own accord revealing hard blue steel, still sharp and marked with runes. Guthrim's eyes go wide. Although he can't read such markings, after a season spent in Laketown he knows a dwarf rune when he sees one.
"Well now. Aren't you a fine looking bit of craftsmanship." He says pulling a spare cloth from his pack to clean and polish the short sword. He glances back at the old ruin.
"Seems those foul birds were here to keep these fine weapons out of the hands of the Free Peoples." He says. "Let us hope their failure is a good omen for the rest of our journey."
Being the first to discover the cache of blades, Faem has her pick of the ancient weapons. Avoiding the nastiness which obscures the larger items, she plucks a short sword from atop the pile, untouched by grime and sludge. It practically gleams in the darkness. In her small hand it feels light, perfectly balanced, and sized for smaller folk such as herself. She carves the air effortlessly, a smile crossing her face.
"This'll d'nicely."
Lorgan retrieves a blade for himself, carefully picking off the worst of the waste and giving the broadsword an experimental swish, admiring its weight and balance. He tests the edge carefully, finding that the blade is still as sharp as it ever was. "Oh, that is a fine weapon indeed!" He gives the Hobbit a respectful nod. "But for your keen eyes, we might have missed these altogether."
When they are finished exploring, he looks around. "I must admit, I have no particular desire to sleep in this dragon-scarred place. Shall we move along before we lose the light?"
Lorgan is right, this is not a place any of you would want to stay for any length of time (except perhasp Faem, who seems curiously unaffected by the mood of the place). With the last of the daylight, you move on to find a spot to camp. At the edges of the long marshes, this is not easy but you do find a spot of higher ground that is firmer and less soggy than the path you have been walking all day. Which is not to say that it is a nice place to visit. The wind blows off the marsh, bringing the stink of marsh gas and damp air that sinks into the ground - and into you. The midges swarm about, biting and buzzing. And the chirpoing sound of the "neekerbreekers" is almost impossible to drown out.
Settling into the campsite, Guthrim first takes care of the animals by removing their packs and giving them a quick brush and check for any rocks or other debris caught in a hoof or burrs and brambles in their coats. With that taken care of he sees them fed, watered, and settled for the night, always doing his best to avoid Nestor's bite or back kick. When necessary he whistles Grimm over and enlists the big hound to help herd the stubborn mule to where he needs to be.
With the animals taken care of the forester settles in to give his newfound blade a closer look. Using a bit more oil and his small knife he works to clean any of the remaining grime and muck from the steel surface and wooden handle. By the light of the setting sun, he notices the runes marking the blade. With a frown he brings the blade up close to his nose.
"Hrrrmmmm...these seem a bit too elegant for dwarven runes." He says running the rag over the surface again. "Looks more like elven script to me. What do you think?" He says turning to Agnar. "Any idea what it says?"
Indeed, the ruins seem a practical place for a camp but for the crebain which escaped. Surely, it will tell its master about the company of adventures intruding in dark lands.
"No sense bein'ere when th'return," agrees Faem. She assumes everyone know at least as much about the birds as she does, and more about the fancy sword Agnar plucked.
Despite that rather hominess of the marsh - a landscape she has navigated since birth - she finds herself mired in muck and too tired for the effort. Camp will have to make itself without her help.