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It was obvious to the party that this was the place, Shelter Five, where it all started to go wrong for the first group.
The scene appeared idyllic, thick grassy flats stretched along each side of the stream up to the bluff. A gentle breeze was blowing up the valley from the rocky wastes out to the right. Birds were chirping from the forest and butterflies could be seen skimming the grasses as they fluttered about.
Sir Reynold gazed down from the back of his horse at the vista, but was not fooled by the apparent beauty of the place. His keen eye took in the charred remains of the shelter, perched just below the forest edge at the top of the flats and overlooking the stream.
An unfamiliar tightness gripped him round the chest as he noted the remains of tattered tents below the burnt out shelter, and scattered mounds of equipment.
Maybe the second group only got to here he wondered to himself. Perhaps those REAL-forsaken orcs were responsible after all.
The uncomfortable feelings that had plagued the party for the past few days were still with him. Sir Reynold noted that the Ranger, Rindy, was looking about nervously, and ugly Rusty the short Silverbeard Priest was constantly darting glances up at the scrub and trees round them. Sir Reynold glanced up and noted that a layer of high cloud obscured the face of Real. His cloak flapped loosely in the breeze and he shivered as a sudden chill came over him. Not fear of course, just apprehension. What did take the other two groups?
How did Brother Oswald survive? Where did they find him again?
Ah yes, sitting in the middle of the burnt out shelter, rocking back and forward and singing quietly to himself, with just his journal and that strange poem to guide us!
Should be about four bells to dark he surmised, better get ourselves established and look about a bit.
Flicking the reigns, Sir Reynold started down the trail, winding down the side of the ridge and into the valley. The others followed.
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