“This mysterious woman had the look of a priestess,” Galen inquired thoughtfully as he continued to examine the ancient elven style longsword Aeron had recovered in the Moonwood. “She did… but didn’t have anything that I could recognize as a holey symbol. It’s possible the orcs stripped her of it… they’d stripped her nearly everything else,” Aeron replied solemnly. He clearly regretted not arriving in time to save the woman, but, having seen the evidence of what they’d done to her, he actually saw her death as a mercy. If she’d lived, she might have born one of the orc’s spawn. “They’re Hamarfea runes, the alphabet of Seldruin, the language of elven high magic. They spell Albion,” Galen revealed considerately. “I read about the legend of an elven wizard named Wayland in Ascalhorn as it fell into Hellgate Keep. It spoke of the seven enchanted swords he had forged as part of a high magic ritual. Each was inscribed with its own name… Morax, Solas, Orias, Eildor, Beleth, Flauros… and Albion. The legend was vague about their abilities, although being forged with everbright isn’t unexpected, they were meant to endure through-out the ages… as long as they exist the spell remains in effect… whatever that is, the legend was vague about that too.” Galen handed the sword back to Aeron, who casually set it aside. It might be one of these legendary swords of Wayland or it might not, but to him it was a fine, enchanted longsword and that was all it needed to be. Full of confidence that some greater destiny had brought them together, the companions left Silverymoon through the Moorgate, the point of entry closest to the Bright Blade Brandished, blindly trusting that they would be guided by the hand of fate. A days march along the Evermoors Road, at a pace inhibited by Tarl, had them camped across the great Rauvin river from the eastern edge of moors themselves. The others had been impressed when Aeron unfurled a simple looking weather cloak, which spring up into a tent large enough to fit four men comfortable with a single word, and even more so with the elven hearthstone that provided light and warmth on command. Fortunately, the tent was less overcrowded than one would expect as Aeron and Nykira were sharing a single bedroll, and petite Faeryl took up little space. So they sat around the hearthstone as they would a fire, sharing an evening meal of elven bread, which Tarl found surprisingly palatable, when washed down with a skin of good stout, and enjoyed each other’s company. With both Tarl and Galen eluding, sometimes not so subtlety, to their hopes that Faeryl would allow them to bearing witness to her nightly supplication to the Dark Maiden. “You came remarkable well prepared for our needs,” the drow priestess praised Aeron. Though no stranger to life in the wild, having spent most of it the Moonwood. She traveled with only the barest of essentials, which didn’t include any form of shelter against the elements other than her magical ring. “You have no idea just how well equipped he really is,” Nykira smirked in a thinly vailed innuendo, clearly intended to embarrass the young ranger, as she leaned over and claimed his lips in a passionate kiss that reddened even Tarl’s cheeks.