Serra rises from the saddle, standing in the stirrups, and stretches her left hand across her forehead shading her eyes from the red glare of the afternoon sun as it sets far down the road. Her right hand brushes the pommel of the sword at her waist, and she considers her situation. With only two hours until full dark she'll never make it to a suitable campsite before nightfall. With no cover in any direction nearby she knows she can't stay here. She glances over her shoulder, looks down the Road behind her and scowls.
Short cut, dirty blonde hair peeks out in several spots from under Serra's beat up, wide-brimmed leather hat. Squinting, her pale green eyes peer out over a nose too large and a wide mouth given to deep frowns and few smiles. Serra is tall for a woman and a bit too muscular for many men's tastes. She doesn't consider men's tastes to be particularly important at the moment. She wears her riding leathers and mail with the ease and comfort of long use.
Serra jerks the reigns, and her massive black warhorse turns with a belligerent snort. She's not likely to outrun any danger riding Nightbreaker, but the first hostile that approaches will end up a red, wet smear beneath the beast's iron shod feet. Not that Serra will have time to celebrate or even consider her foe's fate; any serious danger she faces out here in the Wild will come in screaming packs and will likely overwhelm her. She briefly reflects on the wisdom of bringing Nightbreaker on her patrol run. Maybe a faster, less combative horse would suit her better in the future. As she turns towards the dubious shelter of the Greywood far behind she hopes she gets the chance to test that theory.
Patrol Gone Bad
The problem started two days ago . . . or ten days ago . . . or maybe it was five years ago. It all depends on how you look at it.
Ten days ago it was Serra's turn to make the run from Berador up to Dalton's Camp. It's a simple patrol: five days on the Road; three days resting and getting a feel for Dalton; five days to ride back home. For years out of memory the Greywood Wardens have patrolled the Road and the Wash, watching for signs of trouble and helping travelers in need. Sometimes they find trouble and deal with it. Sometimes they find travelers they can help. Sometimes they don't make it home.
Serra Bennigan joined the Wardens five years ago. Goblins raided her family's farm while she and her father tended to business in Berador. The vile creatures slaughtered the men and the elderly and took the women and children for slaves. When her father disappeared a week later on a counter raid into goblin territory Serra found herself alone for the first time in her life. The Greywood Wardens took Serra in and gave her a purpose in life.
Since that time she has served the civilized peoples around Berador faithfully and quietly as is the Wardens' way. When it came her time to run up to Dalton's Camp she thought nothing of it. She had made this trip, and others, dozens of times over the years. So, she packed and loaded her gear, mounted up on Nightbreaker, and headed out to see what the news would be this month.
The trip up to Berador was uneventful. She kept an easy pace and stayed overnight at the rangers' campgrounds between the two villages. On her fourth night out she met with a dwarf family out from Dalton's Camp making the trek to Berador. They had it their minds to visit the halfling camps at Berador and maybe to take a trip down to the Palantir if their coin held out. Serra passed the evening in their company swapping stories.
The Trouble
Serra found Dalton's Camp the same as always. Filthy, sweaty miners mingled with whores and peddlers and haggled over the value of beer, ore and a night in the sack. There had been no notable trouble of late, and the regular ore shipments for the month would leave town as scheduled. It was around noon on the second day out from Dalton when she sighted the crows.
A great cloud of black birds circled and dived some distance south of the Road. They couldn't be more than a mile away, and Serra set out to investigate.
to be continued . . .
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