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Ydalon
With nothing but silence and a proposal to delay until later, they journeyed onwards to the branchless, petrified tree which man had so laborously grown all those years ago. The oak and hawthorn gave way to a sparser woodland environment dominated by stands of healthy alder, many not yet a century old. The chirp and song of waking birds lent its cheer to the trek, whilst the forest air seemed at once a crisp green smell, and one carrying a humidity that was more ancient and soaked into the soil than the river Ryr.
The sun had crested the horizon when they arrived, and though it was concealed from view by the woodland sentinels and the low hills, its merry light found its way round every curve and obstacle the land could throw at it. A man's off-key whistling bounced between the trees.
Concealed by the undergrowth, the group had a plain view of the tower. It stood in the midst of a clearing of its own, though over the years the forest had worked to reclaim much of it. A dirt track only slightly wider than a deer trail wound its way off through the forest, doubtless on its way to better travelled roads. The whistling man was so engaged in hanging clothes to dry that he would not even accidentally glance in their direction. His own garb was near identical to that worn by the bridgewardens back in Ryndar, marking him as a bandit in his own right.
It was the structure itself, however, which dominated the site. The tower was tall, with four or five floors, the top one looking out over the treetops like a crow's nest over the sea. Individual stones jutted out at odd points, and the whole of the old building might be tilting just so slightly.
Down at the base of the slim structure, the stones were often cracked and the cracks lined with moss, as though this, too, was slowly being reclaimed.
Two windows on different floors, little more than slits, peered out in each of the four directions. Its upper rim was crenellated, like a warlord's keep.
Ydalon observed in silence for a while. This was the place alright. The boy remained crouched as he rolled and stretched his muscles, not agreeing with his choice of accomodation. Indeed it hadn't been the most restful of nights where he was concerned.
The lad rubbed his both eyes with the palm of his left hand, leaving a trace of blood around both. He didn't seem to notice as he watched the tower stand.
"The bad news," he said, "is that there are six or seven of them in there. But the good news is most of them are either not well awake or wounded. If we're swift enough they won't even be armed and armored."
Something trickled down his little finger, and he opened his hand. A lone scratch ran along its surface, but he only shrugged.
"Must've cut myself on something. Which of you are backing out?"
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