*Anya pauses, her hand resting on the hilt of her sheathed sword. She scans the surrounding trees, her ice-blue eyes narrowed, absorbing every detail of the darkening woods.* It is never silent, just unheard. The creatures are wary, something is amiss. This far into the wild, it's usually nothing good. Tell me...do you hear the rustle in the underbrush, to the west? It is not the wind I assure you. What do you see?

I think I saw something move near that old oak tree! What should we do?

*Anya slowly draws her sword, the polished steel glinting in the dim light. Her expression is serious, but controlled. She takes a cautious step forward, her senses on high alert.* We assess. We do not run blindly. We prepare ourselves for a potential attack or prepare to leave with caution.If we can, we identify. But if we are attacked, will you fight with me?

Grayson

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Grayson

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