The scent of lager trailed about the air of the meal house, for it was poured in plenty, and spilled in great waves every now and then. Hardly a word could be heard without the speaker raising his voice and the listener leaning his head. However, given the inclinations most patrons held on this eve of Brannaht, it seemed that there were two speakers for every one listener, each trying to outdo the other in might of voice and speed of response. Nearly every chair was occupied; there must have been at least thirty men in the room, not counting the bewildered boys that ran up and down the two long tables, delivering bowls and cups, or trying to listen to the demands of two men at the same time. In most places, it would feel cramped and dense, but the tall ceiling and wide walkways gave for a surprisingly-comfortable interior. Despite all of this, the guests all held Þergic manners, and a loud word or a single heavy fist upon the hardwood table was the most violent of actions that were made. For all of the chaos that crowd of the meal house, good sentiment was actually held on both sides. Each of the rangers that answered the summons could show his letter and receive a meal on the lord's coin, and the house keepers were compensated in plenty for their accomodation of the travelers.

Though many of the men had some marking or emblem that identified them as belonging to the employ of some lord’s ranger corps, they chanted and shouted just as mirthfully as those who had no reputation to uphold. Some had arrived in Elbregn only just earlier that day with the caravans come from all directions, and supped to celebrate the end of a long journey.

Others had been within the city for quite some time already, and had come to meet the others that had likewise received summons. There was the Brannaht feasting, naturally, but with all of the performances and prayers made by the seers and witches, most of the rangers thought little of it, and few had plans to partake before the departure.

The crowds of rangers within the mealhouse mostly came in groups of two or three, and conversations flowed through each group like a leaf along four different winds. Only a handful of men kept out of the talk of the house, and kept their words amongst their own. They kept their heads leaned close, and their voices were as low as could be reasonably heard by their partners. One was a man of Dormedon, weather-worn and tired, having arrived in Elbregn just earlier that day. His companions, like himself, were dressed in woodsman's attire, and their's were just as worn and faded as his. One had a pale and wiry beard, set beneath two heavy eyes and a mass of light hair. The other was thin and sinewy, with deep folds in his face that captured just as shadow as it did light. All three had plates and cups in front of them in varying states of supply.

“How would you like to go about your duties with your eyes closed?” the heavy-eyed man said with a chuckle as he reread the map that lay upon the table between the three. Of them all, he had been the least accepting of the notion from Gráðír that they should be sent so deep into the Silver Hills on such short notice, and with such little forewarning.

“Oh, an agent of the borderlands who doubts his ears, nose, and feet?” Górin joked through a mouthful of bread, “Surely there was not some mistake that your lord made in your selection, Dákk?”

The thin man called Handor laughed at the remark. "That still leaves the head, and as you've likely come to learn by now, he doesn't have one of those." Dákk laughed and raised a few fingers in his direction.

Both Dákk and Handor had been in Elbregn for almost a branch by this point. Although Dákk was an agent of Ekir Nadon near the mountain pass and Handor came from the midlands east of Elbregn, the two had become fast friends. Neither had yet the opportunity to speak with Jynge or her guard, but as they could spend the days leading up to Brannaht without using their own coins, neither had much interest in being lectured by a witch.

When Górin had left for the barracks after being dismissed by Gráðír, he had learned that his two companions had left for the meal house hardly before he had arrived. After stowing his belongings at the keeper, he went off in search of them. It had taken some searching once he had entered the meal house, but upon finding the pair, he was greeted well. At first, they had only had small talk of their task and kept the topics to more mirthful subjects, but as they were all a rather eclectic gathering, their campaign was the most common element among them.

"I find it quite lovely how Lord Gráðír had not mentioned that Kaðrosedd would not be the only stop we are to make," Górin said when the talk had finally come around to their destinations. "From how he spoke, I had it in mind that we would be making our path directly there and back." Upon the vague map, he traced a path east and south from Elbregn, off into the Silver Hills. There, his finger stopped at the mark labelled "High Ridge," before heading almost due south to where Kaðrosedd was placed. He frowned and gave a disappointed shake of the head. "One might suspect that our willingness is being put to the test."

"We were told," Handor added, "Perhaps he thought it not as important to mention, considering everything else."

"It doesn't seem too far out of the way from our route to Kaðrosedd, though," Dákk speculated, "I doubt the situation would be much different whether we are to make the stop at High Ridge or not."

“You never know what might have changed in those strange lands,” Handor commented, “News seldom comes from those that have made colonies in the deeper Silver Hills, and more often, they prefer themselves to be the bearers of such news. Kaðrosedd, they say, is becoming less and less of a place to rest at, with the stone withering away and the grotesque shadows that haunt the place. Three days ago, I met a manhunter who once followed a murderer into the lands near Kaðrosedd, by Nahtkroínen. He did not enter the grounds of the town, but he came close enough to see it from a hilltop. Like the ancient skeleton of some poor beast, he said. Only the broken stones of houses remained, and even from afar, the air was rank with squalor. He dared not enter, and gave up the search as a lost cause. This was two years ago. Perhaps it is safer now, but I have heard nothing which claims so or otherwise.”

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Górin leaned back in his chair and gave his beard a twist. “Grotesque shadows? So there might be truth to the claim that the people of Kaðrosedd never burnt mounds during the plague? Surely the land would not be so different from any other place where the funeral mounds were built, if such were the case.”

“I have heard otherwise,” Handor added, “The survivors of Kaðrosedd built a pyre like the others, but for some cause or another, the land still remains within a vile miasma. We of the midlands have heard often of the northern borders of Nahtkroínen and of the things that stalk the hills.”

"Don't be so grim as that," Dákk said, shaking his head.

"It isn't wise to discount the shadows of Nahtkroínen,” said a deep voice belonging to a dark-eyed man sitting near them, “Perhaps there may have been a Stékkr that grew from a pile that may have been made by those who may have survived, but the northern borders of Nahtkroínen are avoided for good reason.” As he spoke, he leaned forward in his chair, resting both thick arms upon the table. His face looked rough as leather, though he was as pale as a prisoner, and scars littered his skin in all directions.

Dákk turned to face the newcomer. “You speak as though you have some experience with this region.”

“No,” the man said with a shake of his head, “My grounds of patrol are by Watnóþål and the Hinterlands. Wandering those endless mists of fuming bogland has taught me to give an ear to rumors of things I might not see within the safety of these heartlands.” He leaned forward to examine the map. “For where you are tasked with escorting your witch to, I will give no promise as to what you will find. Rather, I would advise you to not assume your journey based on the lands outside the mists.”

"Your opinion is noted," Górin said softly with a covert roll of the eyes. It was rare for him to cross paths with those who patrolled Watnóþål to the north of Dormedon, but it was even rarer that they liked each other.

“I don't understand,” Handor said.

“You can learn about a land by wandering it, living in it, surviving with it, protecting it, being servant to it,” the man went on, “What roots can be eaten, where roe go to sleep, what water sources will afflict you. Yet there are some lands that hold mystery within them. Things that can be found nowhere else, seen by no other, and perhaps if they once were, they may prove rather different from how you might expect. There's a saying we have in the Hinterlands. 'The fog and the shadows are one and the same.'”

The eyes of the three all went to each other for a moment before looking back at the man. For all of his foreboding and unclear words, he seemed sincere and with conviction in what he suggested. Those that wandered the wetlands of Watnóþål were dangerous folk, it was said. Dangerous folk wandering through dangerous lands. Seldom was it that their duties involved guarding against poachers or trespassers. Wards they rather were, reporting curious happenings that might have no explanation. Some were rumored to have brought back the heads of strange and unknown beasts. Others entered and were never heard from again. And then, there was the rare tale of one who was caught beneath a cloudy Veil. No good ending ever followed in those stories. A former ward of the wetlands might be civil in company, but beneath it all, the terror and violence of the wetlands stagnated in the depths of their minds.

“My name is Jads,” the man said after none of them made any indication of reply. “I and my two companions will escort a watch back to Watnóþål.”

“That’s rather odd,” Dákk remarked, “One would guess that each ranger would be assigned to escort the witch who is tasked with the region most familiar to him.” He gestured towards his two companions. “Not one of us has grounds even as close to Kaðrosedd as Elbregn.”

“Indeed,” Górin said, “Though as it seems, Watnóþål is an exception. The Silver Hills, sparsely-inhabited as they may be, are largely safe to pass through. Perhaps the assignment of the ranger to the witch was considered with his own abilities in relation to the land to which she will travel, and not merely familiarity.”

“I would have preferred that more consideration to familiarity had been taken, regardless,” Dákk said, lifting his cup and having a drink from it.

“Would you have agreed to it, then, if it meant you'd have to travel all the way to Elbregn and back, twice? I think I'd die from the bore of it all.” Górin said, shifting his eyes downward as he began to drift a torn piece of bread around his soup like a boat, “I think it should say much of his confidence in you that our lord appointed this task like so.”

“It should,” Handor said, too low for the others to hear, even without the din of the mealhouse around them.

The conversation went on with the coming of the night and before long, Jads announced the need for his departure. An early night meant for an early morning, and by his own words, the smell of the city was becoming unbearable for him. He and his companions had arrived in Elbregn nearly two branches ago, having trod along the Leyline between Watnóþål and Elbregn. As the witch obviously could not travel in such a way, having not the ability to step onto a Leyline, none of them were looking forward to taking the long way back to their county. The many days spent relaxing had ceased to be beneficial, and had become a bore. Little rest of any quality was had, as he put it while getting up from his chair and making his way towards the door.

Finally being broken from their own insular discussion, the three now found that much of the mealhouse had likewise chosen to take an early night. Górin had few doubts that some were doing so because they had neglected to secure a place in one of the nearby inns before supper. He had heard earlier that the caravan he arrived with was not the only one to have come through that day. At the lowest number, nearly twelve had stepped into Elbregn from dawn onwards; nearly a quarter of the suspected amount that had been hired by Gráðír. The bulk of others, it was said, had arrived in less than five days prior.