Stepping forward behind Kellon and lifting herself up to be larger and less like prey, the elven woman swings an arm to the side and calls out after him, "Get! Begone!" Kellon can hear her hoarse voice straining not to crack. But their loud display and lack of fear have shaken the wolves, who take a few steps back, still snarling and baring their teeth.

Thinking better of getting into this scrap, one of the wolves grabs the dead one by its neck and drags it away, the injured one limping behind. The third remains between them and the two shipwrecked sailors, not moving its eyes from them until the beasts have reached the treeline and skulked away.

The way is clear, and the elf droops back down with a sigh, walking forward again. The grass beneath them is slippery and slick, as if with dew. But between his taloned toes, Kellon can feel the dew is slicker than water, leaving a gross-feeling residue on his feet, like slime or blood. Yet a glance can see that it is clear as water. More than once on their way up the hill, the elf slips and has to struggle back to her feet.

From the hilltop, open fields stretch out around them. The open is broken sporadically by thickets and more patches of trees, and hilly. No sun can be seen in the sky, its light diluted and cast everywhere as a grey curtain through the clouds. More menacing is the Mist closing in from all directions, creeping out of the treeline like gnarled fingers.

Yet not all is bleak. Ahead, they can see the three hunters ahead of them still running, having gained a significant lead. And they are running towards the silhouette of a town.