“Why do you reject the title lord and call yourself a ‘common’ huntsman,” Syn dared to inquire as they rested by a small brook, idly stroking Nykademous’ fur while she nestled in her lap. They’d walked for hours and it was well past highsun, or so she guessed since the nearly unbroken forest canopy made it difficult for her to judge, and in all that time she had learned little more about him; other than he seemed to know the forest like the back of his hand. “It’s not mine to claim,” Torryn replied with a bitter bit in his voice. “My mother was of house Audark, and I carry the name in her memory, but I’m a bastard, and they want no more to do with me then I do with them. Besides, noble blood means nothing here… lords and ladies are no more or less appetizing to the gnolls, orcs or any of the dozen worse things that stalk these woods. As for being a huntsman… it’s a respected and honorable profession here.” It was clear from his tone and manner that he did want to discuss his past or family further, so she tried a different subject; “I’ve traveled much of the Silver Marches, and Evermeet, but I’ve never seen a bow like yours before… you called it Miir I believe.” “I did,” he said in a brighter tone, almost like a proud father, as he gently stroked the composite longbow that never seemed to leave his hand. “She’s a heartbow. I’m not surprised you’ve never encountered one before. They were ancient when the moonblades were forged… forgotten relics of Eaerlann, the elven kingdom that ruled here long, long ago. I found her in the ruins of Mhiilamniir, the temple city. She’s both powerful and wise, despite her occasional lapse in judgment regarding who she insists I offer aid to.” “Well I suppose I’m fortunate for that or I’d still be wandering aimlessly around the forest,” Syn retorted with feign indignation, and then flashed a coy smile as she batted her eyes at him, “and I’ll just have to think of some way to earn your good graces.” A little flirting had gained her more than a man’s good graces before, and it seemed that the brooding huntsman was not immune to her charms since a sly smirk turned his lips as they rose to continue their trek. But within a few hours their spirits were dampened by an unrelenting torrential rain, forcing them to take shelter under a large table-like formation of boulders. “I’ll see if I can find enough dry wood to start a fire,” Syn offered as she started back out into the rain but was halted by Torryn’s stern warning; “Light no fires in these woods. The treants forbid them, and they aren’t always kind about it. Outside Reitheillaethor and the Tree Ghost’s camp there are few places within the forest that a fire will not draw their wraith.” “I have this instead,” he announced as he drew a smooth, pale grey stone little larger than his palm from the same, clearly magical, pouch that he’d taken his bedroll, which was too small for it to have fit within. Placing the seemingly non-descript rock on the bare ground where she would’ve built a fire, he held his palm over it and commanded in elven; “Hearthstone… light and heat of a campfire.” Instantly the stone began to glow and radiate warmth, quickly reaching the level of a small roaring fire, although its light was a pale white, like bright moonlight, instead of the reddish hues of a real blaze.