A Sting in the Tale
Vorel had been wandering this road for a few days now, her feet seeking the compacted and rutted earth that marked the path. She'd been but a few weeks away from her family, and the experience had been both wondrous and frightening.
The days were, as always, cold - it was the season - and the air crisp, clean, and still. Despite lacking the shelter of the cave, she didn't suffer too much with the chill; this was probably an effect of her bloodline, whatever that was.
The road slipped by under her feet, and those she passed did not speak to her, giving the journey a sense of tedium.
The weight of the air putting the day at around mid-afternoon, something struck Vorel as being out of place. Checking carefully, she realised there was a scent in the air beyond the mud of the road and the musk of passing travellers. Nor was it the ever-present gently sweet scent of the natural surroundings - this was woodsmoke, drifting from somewhere off the road.
This was unusual. In her (admittedly limited) experience, travellers wouldn't set up camp by a road, not when there were villages plentiful along the route. Nor was this the time for a simple stop, and there was no smell of cooking in the breeze.