“A warm welcome at last!” Dákk laughed as the five and their steeds finally reached the grounds of the dilapidated tower. It was only about halfway to dusk, and thanks to the clear route they had found from just before nightfall on the previous day, the going had been rather steady, if not rather pleasant. The ground of the ridge was somewhat wet from a light rain the night before, but the clouds remained grey, and faint mists trailed throughout the land to even as late as midday. To the unspoken relief of some, the foreboding mass of dark cloud had moved on as they had. As the group came closer to the steep slopes of the ridge, the dark fog bank had continued its course eastward, until it had finally disappeared beyond the ridge and out of sight.

Though it was a somewhat well-known landmark and waypoint, few had any real reason to go High Ridge, aside from gathering a view of the land for many miles. Excepting, of course, for unusual campaigns that entailed traveling from Elbregn to perform witchcraft atop the tower. It was plain enough to see, even from afar, that High Ridge had long since fallen from common thought. The grass grew tall and wild upon the grounds, and the tower was covered in nearly as much moss as there was carven stone. The tower still stood to both their interest and their gratefulness, unlike what they would have expected of a neglected building. Many portions were crumbling and near the northern side, a large gaping hole exposed the interior, but all in all, the structure remained solidly in place, and showed little sign of suddenly collapsing.

“Let us check within first, then we can search the area a bit more,” Górin instructed. Of all things he could have suggested, this seemed the one least necessary to say, for almost by instinct, everyone made for the broken doorway of the tower, wanting to explore the ruin. All but Jynge, who stood behind, staring out over the grey land to the west from whence they had come. From beneath the mask, her eyes were wide and she swallowed nervously. Not long after starting off, that morning, an waiting unease had risen within her and had only strengthened as they approached the ridge. While she had expected to experience something like this, even under the protection of her aromatics, she didn't expect that it should happen this soon. It reminded her of times in her youth in which she would be suddenly drawn awake from a deep slumber by some odd noise. In that half-awake state, she knew not whether the sound was real or dreamt, but palpable terror remained in the room like a living being slumbering beside her, just within the cover of shadow.

Something foul has been near this place, she admitted to herself. With a slow breath, she closed her eyes and tried to reach out with her senses. Remnants of a wicked essence...Close?...Where?...What is it? Much like those strange fears of the night, the anxiety that Jynge felt upon the ridge felt as real as the ground she stood upon, though of its source she was entirely ignorant. Like trying to catch smoke in the dark.

The witch paid little attention to the others at first as they disappeared within the dim cover of the tower. Her own thoughts caused her to completely ignore their voices as she took in the sight of the stone monument. Here, it stood upon the precipice between the rather clear rolling hills behind her and the more heavily-wooded and obscure lands to the east. Where the deep blight lay, as Górin had warned. It was not quite a forest, but time and isolation had turned the land back to something resembling its wild state, with the strange influence of Nahtkroínen and the blight, of course. High Ridge was but a small island that overlooked into a sea of the unknown. Atop the ledge on which she now stood, her vision went unobstructed on for miles and miles in all directions, and it was there when she circled around to the eastern side and beheld the huge storm in the distance that her unease turned to dread. From what Górin had said, it was moving away from them, and the easterly wind that had been blowing today had thankfully sent it what was likely twenty or so miles away from High Ridge. Nonetheless, the sight of it upon the horizon made it impossible for her mind to be at ease.

She thought back to the words she had heard so often in her time, both in wisdom and in warning, Þérge is not a dead land. Even in the still quietude of the wilderness, memory lived on in both spirit and in body. The more she gazed out into the pale expanse below, the more eager she felt to begin her work. It couldn’t start now, of course; she needed more time. To properly begin the long-rehearsed ritual, she would require almost a whole day just in preparation, and as her mare could not carry both her and her satchels up the hills, she was already very weary. She thought sorrowfully of the day that was to come in the morning, knowing that she would have to savor this night for all she could, for it would likely not be until daybreak on the day after next when she would have a chance to sleep again. After tying the mare’s reins about a standing pillar of broken stone, she followed her companions inside the tower.

The interior of the tower was more well-lit than they all had been expecting. The large hole in the wall near the upper level did not seem to collapse in such a way that compromised the strength of the building, but it did allow ample light into the room. The building itself was circular and measured roughly twenty feet from wall to wall. A single room made up the ground floor, and aside from a large stone oven and four cabinets, no proper furniture or substance could be found. The fragile remains of wooden tables and chairs crunched underfoot as the group walked through, but the flat stone floor was surprisingly intact, though hundreds of small weed and grass blades sprouted up through the crevices and cracks. A wall jutted out upon the eastern wall where a staircase must have been once. Now, it only contained heaps of splintered and rotted wood and a long way to look upwards at the rectangular passageway in the ceiling.

Handor suddenly called out, breaking the otherwise quiet exploration of the room, and drawing everyone’s attention to where he stood by one of the broken cabinets. He was kneeling and examining before him something on the ground. “Come have a look!” he said, “I think we might not have been this tower’s only guests in recent times.” When the others had come over to see what he had found, he took his knife and began to prod the stiff leather of a worn traveling pack, one of three that were nestled inside the cabinet.

“It couldn’t have been more than two or three seasons. Surely not any earlier than this past Leaflay, with the cold and slush,” he estimated as he pressed down on the leather straps. They still gave and flexed under his knife, yet they all showed a hundred tiny cracks and splits in the treated surface where the dank air had done its work. Handor gingerly drew the pack from its place, though not without some considerable effort. It alone seemed light enough for long travel, but it had long since been warped and ruined by neglect, and the moss of the ground held it firm.

The lid easily broke off the moment Handor gave even the slightest pull. He turned the pack over to roll its contents out onto the ground amidst where the group knelt around him. From it fell many tools and supplies for one skilled in traversing the wilderness. Cloth rolls, a waterskin, rope, and other little assortments. All were thoroughly rotted and warped beyond repair. Within a little box, Górin found several little black stones among a black powder, and it was only when he removed his mask to take a closer look that the stench of rotten walnuts assaulted his senses.

The rest of the bags contained much of the same sort of things, although it appeared as though the carriers assigned specific tools to be carried by a specific person, as one pack contained many spare arrowheads and fletchings, while another held most of the once-dry rations, and another was filled nearly entirely with jaggedly-dressed wolf hides. It was the fletcher’s pack that drew Górin’s attention the most. Not necessarily the pack itself, but rather the curved knife which was tucked into a loop sewn into the interior. On its own, it was a simple carving knife, but the pretty bronze cap upon its hilt caught Górin’s eye, for he was certain that he had seen one of its likeness before. Upon turning the thing over, he frowned at the strange find.

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"The emblem of Lord Gráðír’s woodsmen," he muttered to himself.

“Well then,” he said aloud, displaying the knife to the others, “I think this might solve the mystery of whose packs these were. Not for anyone else is the seal of Gráðír's foresters made in such a way, and the rangers in his corps are loath to give lend to their tools to outsiders.” His face darkened even further, and his voice sunk back to a mutter. "Or it at least tells us from whom these bags were taken."

“Perhaps that is true,” Troíde said, “But how can you be certain if such men came here at all? Perhaps your second suggestion was right, and that the owners of these things bought or stole the knife.”

“I would put more faith in the second possibility,” Dákk said, reaching out to request the knife, “I've encountered the royal foresters of Gráðír before, and they are proud men whose names are dear to them. Rightly so, but even three torn rags would be flown high upon their standards, were they dyed in the colors of their corps."

The day had taken advantage of their rapt attention and had rapidly made its departure, and no longer was the dim light so effective at illuminating the otherwise-shadowy room. When Dákk looked mournfully at the dwindling light once again, his eyes suddenly and quickly went to the dark opening on the opposite end of the ceiling. In everyone’s interest given to the abandoned packs, they had forgotten about the higher levels, though for how high the ceiling was, some would have preferred to forget than to attempt a perilous ascent.

Fortunately, the slots in the walls where the wooden stair boards were once fitted offered some possible footholds, and a brief examination showed a more or less clear route up. Even so, the height to floor of the upper level was some twice and a half the height of the rangers, made all the more ominous by the few places to grab hold onto.

"I am not in the right spirits to fall and break my legs," Handor said when Górin suggested that he be the one to climb up the footholds and throw a rope down.

"Would you prefer that I break your legs then?" Górin said, scowling at Handor's defiance.

"Now!" Handor retorted, "there's no need for that."

"Górin, please calm yourself. " Jynge's unsteady voice barely perceptible from beneath the leather of her mask.

"As the leader of this party," Górin explained with a sigh, "I ask that you, likely our most capable climber, use your abilities to aid the rest of us, just as we would aid you." Get up that wall before I throw you against it, he thought.

Actually, it did not take nearly as long as they had all thought. After all of the rope had been thrown to him and he knotted one end to a small pillar in the rubble, a quick path upwards was made, and the rest of the group made their way in turn up to join him.

Much more light entered into the upper level, for the large opening in the lower level's wall was just one part of the large hole that left a huge window to the outside. It was a less empty room, though that was not to say it was well-filled. Two beds lay collapsed instead of being completely rotten away in a pile of wood and fibers upon the floor. Old boxes lay scattered and in bits from where they had been presumably broken and had their contents scavenged a long time ago. Fragments of rubble and muck covered the floor like a carpet.

“Ah!” Dákk suddenly cried, stepping over to a fortification that opened out to the western horizon. From outside the narrow slit, the soft pale glow of the sun's final hours could be seen coming through. He raised his hand to the stone wall and lightly touched the lines of some chalk or other white substance that had been drawn upon the bricks. “Here indeed is our mark! That same sign of Elbregn’s rangers. That should at least give us some confirmation.”

He tapped at a collection of drawings, topped with the emblem of Gráðír. Many images were inscribed into the stone, few of which Górin could identify. The signs and symbols used by rangers to leave messages to others in their territory varied widely from realm to realm, and the secrets were often closely guarded. In all, the whole thing was arranged in a rough circle about the length of an armspan from end to end. Within were many small and distinct line-worked pictures, though many had been worn away by either creeping rain or wind.

“But what do the rest of these symbols mean?” Troíde asked.

Handor stepped forward towards the wall, examining the sign closely. Being a woodsman of the midland realms, he often crossed paths and shared news with the High King's rangers, and many resting points were common between the two forces. In his time, he had come to learn of their signs, and knew many well, though some were still dark to him.

"I cannot tell all of it," he said, looking at some that he could not recognize, and then others that he had not yet figured the meaning of. "This first picture must be the mark of their company, for such methods of identification is likewise used by me. They arrived on…The fourth branch of Leafrise, I think? The season here is badly worn. It could be Leafsway, but that is unlikely…"

"The fourth branch? Leafsway?" Górin repeated quickly, "That is very close to when Lord Gráðír told me a first venture into Kaðrosedd was made. It is possible that those men came here to rest at some point."

"You have still never told us what precisely you are to look for within Kaðrosedd," Troíde noted.

"Let Handor finish deciphering this message," Jynge interjected, "That can be discussed later. We only have so much daylight left."

Handor gave a quick look back before continuing. "‘Long Journey’ or perhaps it is ‘Difficult Journey’…Hmm, they came here not as their final destination, this icon for ‘Brief Rest’ says as much. I cannot read these next signs...Then, here is 'Hunt.' The shape and motion of this mark is different from ours in Ekír Nadón, but the pattern is nearly the same.”

“Interesting,” Górin said slowly, “But I think it is unlikely that they came to hunt. This seems to have been written long after the hunting season. Furthermore, any game obtained in these lands would long be spoilt by the time the nearest settlement was reached, even at great speed."

"Perhaps they meant to hunt for themselves?" Dákk suggested.

"No," Handor said slowly, "I do not think so. I cannot figure out what this next image means, and I am not sure it is even a ranger's sign at all. It appears to be some depiction of a man, though a rather oddly-proportioned one. Ah, and how odd indeed. Here now is the sign for ‘Friend,’ though it is slightly different from how I would have drawn it. This next sign…Perhaps ‘Fight’ or ‘Defend,’ I am not certain. There is that symbol for ‘Hunt’ again, if that is indeed what it means.

“And here,” he continued, “This next collection is ‘Hiding’ and ‘Watchtower.’ Those pictures are nearly identical to those used in the midlands.”

“What are these next two?” Górin said. “One resembles a common sign in county Dormedon for when scenthounds have been used, but that does not make any sense here.”

“No,” Handor said, shaking his head. “I can see the connection to scenthounds, but in the heartlands, we use the image of a standing dog to show that something is trapped. A prowling dog means that the scent is being sought, while the standing dog like this appears to be has its prey caught in a tree.”

He was about to go on about the hopeful success of the rangers, but as he went to the final set of signs, the smile was killed before it could be born. “There is that image of the ill-proportioned man again,” he said without any inflection in his voice, “And there again is the sign for ‘Hunt.’ Put together with this connecting line, it says something like this: ‘It hunts us.’”

The faint light of sunset that shone through the fortification grew dimmer as the sun continued to fall towards the horizon.