OOC:  The moathouse it is then.

Following breakfast, the party sets out from the Inn of the Welcome Wench and heads east through town, as per the innkeeper's directions.  You pass through the village, encountering few other souls out this early in the morning.  On the outskirts of town, you encounter what appears to be the beginnings of a smallish castle being constructed around a new tower atop a low mound on the southern side of the road.  some ways down the road, you encounter of group of perhaps two dozen men making their way toward you.  From their dirty appearance and the tools they carry, you gather they are the workers constructing the castle.  They offer friendly waves and hellos as they pass by.  In the distance, you can see a group of perhaps a dozen temporary shelters along the tree line north of the road - where the workers bed down at night.

The group reaches the overgrown tract leading to the moathouse in due time - the trail leads off into the rugged hills and tangled scrub above the town.  According to Ostler, the moathouse lies about 2 miles away.

A scrub of thorns, thistles, weeds, and shrubs grows thickly along the edge of the track.  Even the track is mostly overgrown and cluttered with fallen branches and trees.  Here and there it is washed out, in other places a mire.

Some game evidently still follows the pathway, however, for after a mile or so faint traces can be seen.  But even considering this, going is slow.  After two miles, as the track turns more northerly, the land begins to sink and become boggy.  Tall marsh plants grow thickly where cattails and tamaracks do not.  Off to the left can seen the jagged silhoulette of the moathouse.

A side path, banked high to cross over the wetland to either side, juts northward to the entrance of the ruin.  The track here is about 15 feet wide or so, with crumbling embankments making travel near the edge dangerous.  The bogs stink.  The vegetation appears dense and prolific, but somehow sickly and unhealthy, creepers and vines throwing their strangling loops over the skeletons of dead saplings and living bushes alike.  The rushes and cattails rustle and bend even to a slight breeze, and weird birdcalls, croaklings, and other unwholesome sounds come faintly across the fen.

10:00 AM

"Did you hear that?"Felicia asked the others, pausing in mid-stride as she stares out into the marshy lands into which they were walking.   "I think we should go slowly, use some caution," she suggested, glancing at the others with some apprehension.

Caution girl? Aye, we should be cautious indeed. I'm not one to have my fishing time cut short by some brigands sword!
Lets shake ourselves out into some semblance of professionalism people. Vestan, you're scout. Peter, Ronalt, you too are next. Felicia, you walk before me and I'll bring up the rear.
Any questions? Although a pain to live with normally, Arek did occasionally show some sign of knowing what he was on about, but was this one of those times?

Looking at Arek and nodding, Peter draws his sword and falls into line behind Vestan and waits for him to start moving. As he waits his listens to the sounds, trying to figure out what they are.

Ronalt smiles and takes his place alloted by the dwarf.  He tests the pull on his long bow adjusting the tension for the effects of the damp fetid air.  He then fits an arrow and puts a very light tension on the bow ready for a reaction shot. "Lead on McPance" he says quietly and watches the "scout" begin his work.

Vestan, had been walking warily, sense straining for signs of any supposed bandits. He was also sulking slightly since being shouted down in the inn and not being allowed to do anything on his own (didn't they trust him? he wondered), looks around at the dwarf. "Who died and made you chief?" he hisses. He stops and looks around, then a lop sided smile appears on his face. "However, it would be prudent to find the others before they find us. No telling what sort of misunderstanding may occur from that. He gives a shrug. <red>"So, sure, I'll go on ahead and have a little look-see. Wait here whilst I do a circuit." He checks his gear over, making sure nothing is loose and will rattle too much, then slips away into the undergrowth.

He moves as quitely as possible, slipping from palnt tussock to plant tussack as much as possible to stay dry, eyes and ears open to the sights, smells and sounds of the marsh.
This message was lightly edited by the player at 21:42, Tue 31 Aug 2004.

Ronalt watches the halfling sneak off into the undergrowth, thinking that may not have been the dwarves plan and momentarilly considers following him. After all, this is the wide outdoors and he doubted Pance had seen the outside of a tavern for years. Still if he wanted to skulk about the wild woods for a while, the fresh air might just do him some good.

He relaxed and stayed with the others.

Long moments pass in Vestan's absence.  From somewhere nearby, the croaking of several frogs can be heard.  After the guttural sounds fade on the breeze, a blanket of uneasy silence falls over the area.

[Private to Vestan Pance: You somehow manage to keep your feet dry as you move off the trail and into the brush.  You find no tracks or any obvious signs of disturbance.  From somewhere very close to you, you hear the croaking of several frogs.  The sounds of the guttural calls fade on the breeze and a blanket of uneasy silence falls over the area.  ]

"How long do you think we should wait?" Felicia asked quietly.  "I didn't here a splash.  But if the bandits saw him before he saw them, he might have been ambushed.  What do you think?" She looked at the men around her.

Arek paused in the act of pulling a bread roll from his pack. Give him a few more minutes, I'm sure he'll scream if he gets in over his head.
Whether he meant trouble or drowning was left up to the listeners imagination as he proceeded to munch.

Vestan scouts around.

[Private to GM: Vestan goes very still when he hears the sounds of the critters disappear. He thinks back to the wood craft taught him by his Uncle Wassnae and strains his senses to the upmost, especailly his ears, knowing that anything approaching him is likely to make some kind of noise. He licks lips gone dry as he tunes into the rhythm of the marsh, searching for anything out of place and getting ready to respond to anything coming his way. One hand gently carresses the head of Gloria, the axe on his right hip.]

"Haven't you noticed how quiet it is without the hobbit around?" said Ronalt by way of conversation.

Yes, I had actually, says Arek spitting peices of bread. Isn't it nice?

"Arek," Felicia chided, trying to keep a smile from her face at the dwarf's remark.  "That's not very nice.-Even if it is true."

The others can tell he has a smile on his face but he holds up his hand, "Shhh, I thought I heard something." He listens.