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There is silence - a silence that seems to go on for several hours, though it lasts but a few seconds.
Then shapes appear before the party, across the stream, as if from thin air - six shapes, each clad in white cloaks that shimmer and blend into the landscape. The lead figure hails them.
"Hail then, and well-met! I am Siona Greenmeadow, Cleric of Chauntea - and these are my companions. Who might you be, and what brings you to this perilous wood?"
The figure takes down its' hood; to reveal the face of an young elven woman. Her smile and eyes tell of a serenity hard-won in the face of struggle; her face and loveliness shine around her. Her blonde hair is cropped to her neck, held in place by a woven garland of blue flowers. Some of the party are stunned for a second by her - be it her beauty, authority or simple goodness and power. She looks among the party, waiting for a reply.
Tancred is struck dumb, like the others - but his gaze is not drawn only towards the lady in white. His eyes are wide open, staring at her and the travellers with her. A sinister-looking rogue with a black beard, and twin black swords to match; a fierce young halfling, bow drawn; a dwarf, the light of violence in his eyes as he fingers his axe; a wizard with white hair and an almost ghostly complexion; and, especially, the young warrior who suddenly stands defensively before the elf, his sword drawn. Tancred looks at the warrior's youthful, slightly boyish face; his stance and the device on his shield; and lastly, his sword that glows golden, lighting up the shadowed brook like a star.
He knows them. He knows them all. He is suddenly very glad of the scarf around his face.
The thought strikes him - Is this real?
The sword speaks.
"What have we here? I don't like the way that one looked at me. Quick! Give him a jab, holy-boy!"
"Shut up, Karnas!" mutters the young warrior.
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