The sun had yet to break on the horizon, and the sky above Neverwinter was a medley of muted colours: inky purple at its darkest points, swirled with darkened pink and orange clouds and patches of ever-lightening blue. Stars that burned so brightly in the dark of night were faded to mere pinpricks of distant light, though the moon still shone with a steady silvery glow. Westra paused as she passed through the South Gate, admiring the theatre of nature; after a few days of steady rain and constant grey, the colours were a welcome sight.

She heard the lowing of oxen off to her right and turned towards the sound; in the dim twilight, she could make out the shape of a cart and a stout figure moving back and forth around it about two hundred paces away, just outside the city stables. She started toward it, adjusting her pack for a better grip. “Good morning,” she called out.

“Well, it is certainly morning,” Orsik replied, “but whether or not it’ll be a good one remains to be seen.” He grunted as he adjusted one of the straps holding the ox harness to the wagon. He nodded to Westra’s pack. “You travel light,” he said. 

She shrugged. “I don’t need much. And if I find myself lacking an item, I often find a way to procure it. Besides,” she added as she swung the pack from her shoulder and into the cart, “a lighter pack makes it much easier to carry my axe.”

The pack landed with a dull thwump, and a muffled cry of pain and protest came from beneath it. “Watch it!”

“Trym,” Orsik said to Westra by way of explanation. “She’s not overly fond of mornings. Or oxen. Or conversations, particularly in conjunction with the other two items I’ve just mentioned.” The halfling popped up from the floor of the wagon, dishevelled auburn curls sticking out in all directions, and she fiercely shushed the two of them before flopping back down onto her makeshift bed.

“Clearly,” Westra murmured.

“The only reason she tolerates the wagon is because it provides her somewhere to sleep,” Orsik added, loading more of Gundren’s supplies into the wagon bed. Westra noticed that he was quite careful to avoid the dark lump that was Trym snuggled in her cloak. She leaned her axe against the side of the wagon and started helping load supplies. 

The sun was just breaking the horizon as they loaded the last of the supplies, and with its first light came Anders. “Hello!” he called out brightly as he approached.

“Oh my gods, he’s a morning person,” Trym mumbled into her hood. A tantalizing smell wafted through the early morning air, momentarily overpowering the smell of the oxen; Trym bolted upright, sniffing.

“Apologies for my late arrival,” Anders said, removing his pack with one arm and placing it with the others. His other arm held a soft cloth sack; the pleasant smell seemed to be emanating from that bag. “I thought we might like to start our first adventure together with some fresh bread. My room in Neverwinter is above a bakery, and I learned to bake when the work at the docks didn’t quite pay for my room and board.” Smiling earnestly, he held the sack out to Westra.

She removed her glove, reached in, and took out a small loaf. “It’s still warm,” she said, smiling. She brought it closer to her face and inhaled deeply. “Thank you, Anders. This is quite unexpected, and very welcome.”

Trym reached frantically for the bag, grabbing the largest loaf she could feel. Eyes wide, she disappeared into the depths of the wagon and tore into it with her teeth. The rest of them could hear her rough chewing and contented sighs as she ate.

“Thanks, lad,” Orsik said gratefully. “It’s been some time since I had fresh bread of any quality. The stuff the military gets is hard as a tack.”

Anders flushed with humble pride. “Really, it’s not much. I just feel that a job always goes smoother if everyone shares a meal together first.”

“It’s really very kind,” Westra said, briefly placing her hand on his arm. Anders’ flushed cheeks deepened in colour.

“Right,” Orsik said, holding the reins and patting the ox closest to him. “Who’s going where, then? Would anyone prefer to walk alongside?”

Westra stared ahead at the muddy tracks, and then down at her fine leather boots. “I think I prefer to be up out of this muck,” she said, moving towards the cart.

“Ever driven a team of oxen before?”

She blinked. “No, I…is that a requirement?”

“It isn’t difficult,” Anders interjected. “If they’re well trained, they should only need a hand on the reins and a word here and there.” He patted one of the oxen. “When I was young, my parents found work on a large farm, and I worked with the farmhand who trained the teams to plow the main fields. There’s not many jobs I haven’t done, to be honest.”

“I see,” Westra said. “Well, maybe I’ll ride in the wagon with Trym. You and Orsik seem best acquainted with this whole operation.”

“I do hope we’ll get to hear about each and every part of the trials and tribulations that made Anders Brightwood the strapping young hero we see before us,” Trym said, words muffled by a mouthful of bread.

“Good morning to you too, Trym,” Anders replied.

“There is nothing good about mornings,” she sulked.

“Is she always this waspish?” he asked Orsik.

“Brave, good, noble Anders, asking after the temperament of his travelling companion!” Trym wailed, raising her hand to her brow in a fake swoon.

“You know, I’m not sure that I like you,” Anders said to her, his brow furrowed.

“That’s impossible. Everybody likes me. I’m incredibly charming.” She grinned impishly at him.

“Charming is not a word I would use to describe you, Ms. Tosscobble. Aggressive, perhaps, but not charming.”

The trail was fairly straight, and they passed few travellers, either due to the recent weather and resulting mud or to the rumours of roaming goblin packs waylaying the under-guarded. Orsik and Anders chatted in the front, Trym pretended to sleep while interjecting the occasional rude or sarcastic comment, and Westra watched and listened. They carried on this way until midday.

The wagon rounded a bend in the trail, and Orsik drew the reins in. “Whoa,” he said, steadying the oxen. Fifty feet ahead in the middle of the road were the large dark bodies of two dead horses peppered with black-feathered arrows, and a golden, glowing shape looking over them. Anders, ever the chivalrous gentleman, leapt out from the wagon and proceeded forward on foot, longbow ready to draw, and called out. Westra, after a moment’s hesitation, followed. The woods pressed closer to the trail here, choking the bright midday sun into dappled spots upon the ground.

The shape rose and turned to face them, sharp golden eyes set in a smooth bronze face, surrounded by clouds of shining golden hair, under which the tips of her long ears could barely be seen. As Anders cautiously approached, the elf rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath. “Na’vanessani, nehel kessuk bhen.”

Anders stopped. “Deshu nehel, kesir,” he said sharply.

The elf looked back at him with a hard stare. “Your accent is atrocious,” she replied in heavily accented Common.

“As are your manners,” Anders retorted. “Did you kill these horses?”

She continued staring at him with her hard golden eyes. “You are the one with a bow. Besides, why would I kill horses? Horses are useful.” She looked back to the bodies. “I came across them only moments ago, and found them like this.” She sniffed. “They have been dead for maybe one day.”

Westra approached and leaned down to retrieve a piece of fabric. “This is from Sildar’s cloak,” she said softly. “Gundren’s bodyguard,” she explained, noticing the look of confusion on Anders’ face. “He was wearing it when Gundren recruited me for this journey.”

“Are you certain?” Anders asked. He could hear Orsik urging the oxen forward.

“Yes, the embroidery on the hem is fine work. I noticed it when I met him.” Her brows knit together, blue eyes dark with concern. She checked the saddlebags, and a leather map case in the dirt nearby. “Empty,” she said. “Gundren had this map case on him.”

“Look at how the horses are lying,” the elf said suddenly. “Those are not natural positions.” She kicked at the ground. “And look here – drag marks. These horses were moved here.”

Westra locked eyes with Anders. “It’s a trap,” they said together. 

Anders nocked an arrow and pulled the bowstring taught, aiming into the left bank of the woods and waiting for movement. He did not have to wait long. A small creature came barreling through the trees towards them – a goblin, with ill-fitting leather armor dangling from its sinewy body, waving a scimitar above its bat-eared head. Anders loosed his arrow; his aim was true and the arrow penetrated the goblin’s chestpiece and torso with a dull, satisfying thunk. The goblin blinked dumbly, staring down at the feathered shaft protruding from his chest, before dropping to the mossy woodland floor.

From the other side of the path leapt another snarling goblin. The creature readied his blade to cut the strange elf; Orsik, leaping down from the wagon, effortlessly withdrew a handaxe from a sheath on his side and hurled it at the goblin’s head. It was a masterful shot, but it was close; the axe’s fine edge sliced through some of the elf’s cloud of golden hair before cleaving into the goblin’s skull. Blood and brain matter spurted onto the elf’s fine dress and the sleeve of Westra’s chainmail shirt. The elf snarled at Orsik, while Westra merely looked disgusted.

“There’s more in the woods!” Anders cried. “There’s one, behind that clutch of trees!”

The elf whirled. “Ray of Frost!” she yelled, aiming at the goblin. The trees hid the creature well; the spell went wide of it’s target, leaving frosted leaf tips in its wake. Missing her mark enraged the elf even more.

In retaliation, the goblin she’d missed stepped out from behind its woodland cover and fired its shortbow. The elf turned and dropped her shoulder, and the arrow landed harmlessly in the grassy embankment behind her. Anders, still searching his side of the trail for more goblins, failed to notice the arrow coming at him from the trees on the other side. It caught him in the shoulder blade, and he grunted in pain and dropped his drawing arm.

Westra whirled and dashed into the woods towards the source of the arrow, releasing her greataxe from its sling. Spotting the goblin, she firmly planted her feet, grasped the handle, and swung. The axe cleaved the goblin’ torso in two, neatly slicing through leather, flesh, and bone before biting into the tree on the other side. “Damn,” she cursed as she braced her boot on the trunk of the tree. “Try to keep one alive!” she yelled back to the group as she tried to free her axe.

Trym, still perched on the wagon for it’s higher vantage point, rummaged in her pack until she found what she wanted: a length of rope, which she looped around her arm. Her sharp eyes saw the last remaining goblin in the trees turn and start to run; she leapt down and gave chase, drawing her shortbow. When she had cleared the first trees, she steadied herself and took a shot; an inhuman shriek told her that she’d found her mark, and the continued rustling of leaves told her that the mark had survived. It was injured, but not enough to halt its escape. Trym cursed and started in the same direction.

“Trym!” Orsik roared, sprinting after her into the thicket. “We’ve got to stay together! TRYM!”

A ghostly, translucent hand shot past the charging dwarf, its pale fingers outstretched. The hand grabbed the edge of Trym’s cloak as it streamed behind her and held fast; the halfling let out a surprised yelp as her torso was suddenly halted while her legs continued forward. After a brief moment of floating in mid-air, she landed with a soft thud, flat on her back. The pale hand started dragging the cloak back to the others; Trym snarled as she fumbled with the clasp in an attempt to free herself.

Orsik caught up, breathing hard, and immediately covered his face with a hand to hide his smile. It was quite a sight. Trym spotted him and snarled. “What are you standing there for? Help me!”

He obliged, helping Trym back to her feet. The ghostly hand continued to tug at her cloak, pulling her in the direction of the wagon. “It’s all right, I’ve got her!” Orsik called out. The hand dissipated into the air.

Trym spluttered with rage. “Was that the work of that golden elf witch?” she demanded, trying to straighten her cloak.

“What were you playing at, Trym?” Orsik demanded, still panting. “Clearly those goblins lured us into their trap, and we’ve no idea how many more friends they might have with them or what other traps they might have laid throughout these woods!”

“I was trying to bring one back alive!” Trym raged, kicking at a tree root that had broken the surface of the earth and swearing as the impact jammed her toe. She removed a dagger from her boot and jammed it into the tree’s trunk.

“Look,” Orsik said, holding his hands up. “I understand. By the looks of things, those goblins have done something to my cousin and his friend, and I want answers too. But we don’t know where they are, and the safest thing we can do is stay together in a group.”

Trym stared at the ground for a moment, hands on her hips. “Fine, Sarge,” she said eventually, her voice still quivering with suppressed anger. “Let’s go back to the group. I want to have a word with that elf.” And she took off sprinting.

Orsik rolled his eyes to the heavens, took a deep breath, and followed suit. He reached the dead horses just in time to see Trym jabbing her finger in the elf’s face – he couldn’t hear what was being said, but knowing Trym it was probably fierce and colorful. As he walked up towards them, the halfing spun on her heel and marched away, back towards the wagon. Orsik sighed heavily.                                                                                                                             

“You cut my hair, erkatam,” the elf said, eyes narrowed, gathering the rest of her golden mane over one shoulder and inspecting the rest of its shining length. Orsik was momentarily taken aback at her uncanny resemblance to a feral cat.

“Aye, and I think that goblin was intending to cut off more than a few strands of your precious golden locks,” he retorted, huffing into his beard as he moved towards Anders. “Let’s have a look at that shoulder, son.”

Westra was busy wiping her chainmail and her axe clean with a soft cloth. When she finished that, she fished a smaller embroidered cloth from her pack and carefully wiped her hands and face clean. “Let’s just all agree that things can go awry in a fight, and start over.” She stood and extended a hand to the elf. “Thank you for your assistance. My name is Westra Hornraven.”

The elf stared at the outreached hand for a moment before grasping it daintily. “Ielenia,” she said stiffly. “Ielenia Aughlathla. In your tongue it means…”

“Winterbreeze,” Anders said softly. 

“That is correct,” Ielenia replied coolly. “And what are you called?”

“Anders Brightwood,” he said, nodding his head towards her and immediately wincing in pain as the movement aggravated his injury. “The halfling over there is Trym Tosscobble, and the dwarf -”

“The dwarf is quite capable of introducing himself, thank you very much,” he huffed. “Orsik Ungart.” He cleared his throat. “I do apologize for your hair,” he muttered.

Ielenia shrugged. “It will grow back.”

Orsik spluttered, while Westra covered a grin with her hand. “But – you said – you were angry!”

She shrugged again. “We were not acquaintances then. We are acquaintances now.” Ielenia examined her fingernails. “The halfling contains a lot of anger for one so small,” she commented.

“Yes, well, you did try to drag her back here by her cloak,” Orsik replied, looking uncomfortable. 

“Are you travelling alone?” Anders asked the elf.

“Yes,” Ielenia replied. “I am going to Phandalin for aid. Goblins,” she spat on the ground as she said the word, “have defiled one of Oghma’s sacred temples, and I am going to take it back from them. There is a priestess in Phandalin who can help me.” She frowned. “I did not expect this level of trouble on the road, however.”

“Seems like we have a common destination,” Westra said.

Trym came marching back, positioning herself between Ielenia and the rest, and turned her back to the elf. “How serious is that?” she asked, pointing to Anders’ shoulder. 

Orsik shrugged. “It’s not too bad,” he said, tying off a bandage. “A short rest, and he should be right as rain.”

“And after the rest, what then?”

“Go to rescue Sildar and Gundren, of course,” Westra and Anders said together. “It’s the right thing to do,” Anders added. The others all turned to look at Westra. 

“I came on this journey to get to Sildar. If he’s captured or dead, there isn’t much point in me continuing on to Phandalin.”

“Aye, and I’d like to know the fate of my cousin,” Orsik said. 

“I do not have business here,” Ielenia said. “My business starts in Phandalin.”

“I wasn’t asking you,” Trym said, eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Now hang on there, Trym,” Westra said. “Ielenia, it could be that we could help each other in our endeavours. You’re clearly a magic user, and you’ve already discovered that travelling alone on this road can be dangerous. And once you get to Phandalin, you might find you’re in need of more help than one priestess can provide.” She looked at Orsik. “I’m sure we’d be glad of your company, yes?”

Trym’s small body was buzzing with anger. Orsik walked up to her and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “We’ve better chances with more of us,” he said, nodding. 

Ielenia frowned, thinking. “There is truth in what you say,” she said. “And I would like the opportunity to practice on some of these goblins.”

Trym sighed heavily, letting some of her rage escape with her breath. “So it’s decided, then? We’ll ALL go after Gundren and Sildar?” The group nodded their agreement. “Good,” Trym said. “Because I’ve found their trail.”