The next morning crunches with frosted glass and the low sun curls back the darkness and beauty of the East Pass rises before your eyes. Strong from the night’s rest, the oxen begin a steady assent of the pass. Ground and tree are still green in the low pass, swaying to the morning wind that whips down the mountain side. Yaqub pulls his blankets tighter and the driver begin to mumble about the cold.
The forest draws near, by late morning roots begin digging and chipping away at the road, wagons rattle as they bump over. The thinning air dampens bird song and few deer spring along the road. Baelim and Tirana walk to a slight clearing ahead and pass a pocket of still air. No birds sing, only the rattle of Baelim within his cold chilled armor. No movement, only the rustle of leaf and twig. Zeke catches a scent and raises his nose. A thin stench lingers in the stagnent air, the scent of other ones that share the deep. Green-things!
“Waaagh!”. High voices voices screech from bursting trees. Thicket and brush belch vile, stunted creatures, a briar of tiny arms reach and grasp for Baelim and Tirana. Late morning sun glintting off the flash of iron blades and the screeching forest mobs down on the knight and mage.