After breakfast, you can gather your gear and head outside.  A few torches burn here and there to dispel the very early-morning gloom, but dawn is not quite arrived.  Sir Aberlayne leads a sturdy little pony out of the stables attached to the Guildhall and has him saddled in a trice.  Slinging her backpack over the pony's rump and securing his saddlebags, she swings up into the complicated-looking saddle without any seeming effort.  Dellas doesn't quite stumble out of the stables after her, looking marginally more alert in the cooler morning air, leading a little donkey.  He saddles it up quickly and pulls himself onto the beast's back.

"Else we'd never keep up with you long-legged folk," Dellas says.  "Hey Drogo, Honeybee can carry two for a bit, if you want."

Once everyone is ready, you can strike out north.  The guards let you through, looking mildly surprised at the industriousness of the group in leaving this early.  Outside Redhaven's stone walls, the road stretches east and west in a wide, broad, even swath, easy for caravans to traverse.  So of course you turn north, to a road barely half that width, good for a wagon, but not a whole fleet of them.  The road is half-dried mud in between packed gravel, and puddles still gleam in depressions and the wheel ruts.  A few foolish birds are chirping already, and insects are still singing their songs.  You see a few bits of light, fireflies, flickering in the grass and dancing upon the breeze.

As you carry on, the sun slowly rises, dispelling the gloom and bringing more warmth.  Trees are slightly back from the path, the effort of the local Baron to keep the roads from having too-convenient ambush spots, and grasses wave in the breeze.  You haven't seen anyone else along the road yet, but Boltharrow is a small place.  Nevertheless, you know the danger of road and how seemingly quiet places can turn into very dangerous ones.

OOC:  Could I get a rough marching order?  The road's big enough for two across easily.  Sir Aberlayne will stay near Dellas, who would prefer the middle if at all possible.  Also, if you have any SAPs (Standard Adventuring Procedures) you'd like me to take note of, please do so.  Like, "Thunder always scouts ahead, Mystique is always flying above me, Averdante always has his bow out, Drogo always travels wearing a wererat mask, etc."

Farian will be near the front, either in front, or in the second row.

"There should be fighter types in front, and maybe one at the rear too. Safer traveling that way"
This message was last edited by the player at 01:00, Mon 16 June 2014.

Narthian smiled as the group began it's travel for the day.  It was nice to be on the move again and with a real purpose, no less.  He adjusted his pack and fell in line.

OOC: Narthian would prefer to be near the front but will leave the front for the fighters and barbarian if they so desire.  Thunder will stay near Narthian but will occasionally travel off on his own, not too far away, about 100 feet or so.

Averdante carries his bow, and is happy to be near but not at the front. His powers of observation should alert the group to any dangers ahead, and he can be lethal, but he is not the one you want to be behind and trust that his presence will slow an onrushing enemy.

He's also more than willing to go ahead and scout, as he can move more quietly than many of the others in the party - like the riding animals.

Bruenor was slightly disgruntled by the rude awakening, but he was used to early rises for weapons drills, and so accepted breakfast with little objection.

After the party sets out, Bruenor marches along diligently, keeping toward the front of the group.

OOC: Bruenor will take the lead of the group, but will cede that line to the barbarian and Drogo, instead taking the second row. Regardless of row, he walks with neither weapon drawn, but rests his right hand on his rapier should he be in the front row.

"Oi woman..." the barbarian grumbles, grasping his head, until realizing it is warm tack that has brought him to this wakeful morn. He catches eyes with Valia as he rises nude from his cot, "Thanks darlin'" he calls at her with a wry grin and a large chomp taken from the loaf.

Volsh, now prepared for the road, travels in his studded leathers and a carefree gait. Although his stride is normally long and fast, this morning brings about a bizarre undertaking. He hangs back to the rear to watch the others and their backs. Volsh is not accustomed to traveling with others much.