[Legolas]

The days of rest pass swiftly in the village. Men regain their strength and work up their courage in the relative safety of humble Brisken. There is but minor exchange of goods and services beyond the ale, and few are the restless who await their hire here. Matters of the sort are swiftly settled - a full twenty-one armed riders now see to the safety of the wagons, a force to rival the warband of any barony.
One by one the pieces of the train pull themselves in line, raising a cloud of dust and dirt thick enough to blot out the rising sun. At the head, scarce audible over the noise of animals, gear and men, the two big men sort out the final points of the perilous journey to come. Tom Brinks, the merchant owning a full sixth of the carts in the train and showing his wealth with a long and laboriously oiled black moustache and brightly coloured attire if not his pouch, and Selgrid of Vasted, the Weasel only behind the mercenary captain's back.

And well should they make these arrangements. Sizeable as the escort is, the next days they will risk both ambush and raid. It is whispered that a host of fearless robbers dens in the region, but also that there are hostile spirits. Perhaps they are spirit bandits, or raiders with those otherworldly allies at their beck and call. Tall monsters lurk hidden beside the road, waiting to pounce. A fog of insanity and death will fall over all those who lack the proper wards and charms. It is where the Firanhide run.

Ahead, the earthen road winds off into the distance, looking no different from the path the wheels took into the village. Vegetation rarely spring up over waist height here, and stands devoid of colour where it has. The winds are dry, and while it is no true wasteland it takes little imagination to think of finer climes.
Still the caravan is trying to get ready. Dust and broken hills await.