“What is this, daughter?” An aged dark skinned elven man seated on a large rock by the central fire pit inquired calmly of Ytharra, though his tone bespoke of an underlying tension. The wild elves camp wasn’t nearly as primitive as the companions had expected. Housed in a small, secluded tree strewn vale, reached by a passage through what appeared to be a solid rock face until they pushed their way between two large pines, it consisted of over three dozen yurts which had clearly remained in place for some time. “I owe these travelers a life-debt,” she began bowing respectfully. “But all they asked of me is my friendship… which I have sworn to them… and as friends, I invited them to share the hospitality of our camp for the night.” “And what of those who foolishly followed you when I denied you permission to confront the human loggers?” he pressed insistently, while continuing to eye the trio with an appraising glare. Holding out the bags of her fallen comrade’s ashes, she replied sorrowfully; “They gave their lives for our trees.” “Do you see now that we can not stand against this onslaught alone?” he chided, clearly both angered and disappointed in her. “You aren’t alone,” Courynn offered reverently. “This is a matter of concern for all who dwell in the Yuirwood… and it’s my understanding the Green Mage, Hamafil Sylerin, councils Princess Blindelsyn to resist these intrusions even now. Though violence may not stop the axes from falling, the threat of it might give those who swing them pause for long enough to allow other methods to succeed. We sent the crippled leader of the men that killed your kin back to Urst with a warning not to fall any more living trees, but to only to take those that fell on their own.” “You’re one of them… human,” Thurdan sneered spitefully. “Why should we listen to anything you say?” “I may not be Yuir by blood,” he objected emphatically. “But I was born in the forest and its as much my home as it is yours.” “It seems my daughter has chosen wisely to call you friend,” the elder elf interrupted in a firm but warm tone. “I’m Zhoron, chieftain of the Woodsong tribe, and while I won’t put my people at risk to stand against the loggers, if other avenues can stop the falling of the trees than I hope those who pursue them succeed. But for now… she was right to offered you the hospitality of our camp. I welcome you to join us as we celebrate the lives of those who fell today… and offer my thanks for saving my daughter’s life.” Shown to a clear area on the outskirts of the camp, Courynn’s transformation of his cloak into its tent form drew the interest and envy of both Ytharra and Yhendorn. Left alone for the first time since they arrived in camp, he explained that wild elves do not mourn their dead but celebrate their lives. As the sun set, the companions were led back to the center of the camp, where a feast had been laid out near a large boon fire and they quickly became a focus of interest, Nymara and Lynneth drawing hungry stares from most of the men, while Courynn shared the same kind of attention from many of the women.