| Perhaps to cut down a silver tree?
Finally, a place without another arrow. Instead.... a small horde.
Clusters and small camps of men in light, gray-green armor littered the foothill path as it led past a massive granite spike, curling around the base of the landmark. Here and there, amongst them, a woman in far too little clothing, wielding a single-edged battleaxe. And there, at the end nearest the shore, a pair of titanic men, bald and mustachioed, each wielding a sledgehammer fit to treat a man like a rail-spike- both also clad in dusty gray-green.
The minor horde relaxed there, practically waiting for some dupe, some callow youth or revenge-blinded battler to wade in amongst them- and either make a mess of the whole situation, or perish ignominiously under spiked-bat clubs and maces like clusters of steel grapes.
Two creatures- mounts, to go by the saddles- lurked amongst the camps as well, whiplike tails swinging idly as beaky mouths munched on the local vegetation. For beasts of war, these pink, bird-legged things looked horribly awkwards, clearly no faster than those who would ride them- and why would one bother? Perhaps for a bit of reach from that thin tail, but even so....
Truly bizarre.
And it would be here that any who followed the path of arrows would find themselves, here they had been pointed at.... but why? |