North-East to Elohin

It should be easy enough to find the elven city, the city can be seen clearly from the high slopes of Mount Adramore. The mountain was one of the northern peaks of the Dragon’s Teeth, the peak had a distinctive flat top as though it had been sheared off by a giant titan of legend. The first leg of the trip passed through the sloping foothills of Little Tooth, the smallest of the famed Dragon's Teeth range. The terain was a mixture of woodlands and scattered pastures and meadows. In normal times the journey would have been pleasant, few wolves came this far down into the foothills and the orcs and goblins that had plagued the lands during your grandpa’s days had been driven into the deepest swamps and most uninhabitable hills.

However with the chaos caused by the reptilian demons that swept over this corner of the Isle of the Seven Stones has disrupted the peace that you had always known. The goblins that captured the elfin beauty by your side were evidence of that, and the villages that just a week ago would have been ideal places to spend the night were now either shouldering corpse filled nightmares, or targets that would soon be ravaged by foragers looking to supply the main army.

Despite the added stress of the dangers, you find yourself enjoying the bright spring time sunshine and the feel of the soft loam beneath your feet. Your worries about your new companion fade as the day goes on, she has no trouble matching your pace and several times her sharp eyes spot sweet red strawberries that her nimble fingers pick with a swiftness that you cannot hope to match.

The second time you pause to share a handful of the fruit, you point to your chest and say “Hans”. The elf nods happily and offers you a handful of berries. “Hans, you repeat. Touching your chest again.” Taking your hand you gently touch her just above the tempting swell of her breasts. “What’s your name?”
You ask gently. It takes a few attempts, but by the time you leave the clearing you are pretty sure that her name is “Tri’lanna”. It sounds like an elvish name and she happily responds to it when you call her call her by that name.

Around noon you sit in silence by the banks of a small brook of icy water that flowed from the snowmelt from the peaks high above you to your right eating slices of stale bread. A fat trout is moving lazily from one shady hole to another and you point the fish out to Tri’lanna, mimicking a fishing pole with your hands. She stares at you blankly for a while, but when you point to the fish again she smiles happily and pulls her sandals from her feet and slips into the shallow pool. She flows as she moves, almost blending with the ripples in the water and approaches the fish as stealthily as a stork.

You watch in awe as her fingers reach slowly around the fish and then with a quick flip sends the shiny trout flopping around on the bank. With a shout of glee you leap for the fish and try to grip its slippery body. You are as clumsy as your companion was dexterous, twice you fail to secure the fish and as it flips back into the brook you land with a splash with your hands and face in the cold water.

Tri’lanna giggles at you as you climb back to your feet covered with water, laughing at yourself easily as you do. The afternoon walk passes as smoothly as the morning trip and you make good time, skirting two pillars of smoke that rise ominously from what must be the remnants of more villages.

That evening you lay the ground cloth over a pile of springy branches that you cut from a nearby fir. A small fire keeps the mosquitoes from your head and you lay out blankets for you and Tri’lanna as you eat the last of your bread. You offered Tri’lanna half of your last sausage, but she covers her nose and mouth with her pretty hand as she pushed the cured meat away.