The morning dawned crisp and clear at Solvindparken, a deceptive calm after the previous day’s relentless ascent. After a well-deserved night’s rest in their tents – or as well-deserved as one could get at such altitude – and a quick, sustaining breakfast, the party broke camp with a newfound efficiency. Even Lamech, despite his vibrant Laneutian attire, found himself moving with a more practiced rhythm, the morning air filled with the scent of damp pine and cold ash. Today marked the second leg of their journey through the Kir Kurad Mountains, and Uilleam, their steadfast dwarven ranger, remained by their side, his keen eyes observing, occasionally offering a gruff, constructive pointer on their burgeoning camping skills.
The path from Solvindparken led towards Gruvarby. The itinerary promised a day of substantial gain and loss, a dizzying traverse of craggy peaks and deep valleys. The initial hours were deceptively mild, the sun warming their backs as they navigated the rugged terrain. As they marched, a new spirit took hold.
Bryon, the monk, suddenly boomed out a rhythmic chant, his voice carrying surprisingly well in the thin air. Others quickly picked up the beat, falling into syncopated steps.
“I just love my ranger Uill! An experienced dwarf with lots of skill!”
The other party members took up the chorus.
“My Uill (My Uill)! Your Uill (your Uill!), Our Uill (Our Uill!)”
The shared song knit them together, and their pace quickened, a testament to growing cohesion.
“What’s that?” asked Sikstoffer, pointing at a large pile of scat.
“Just a cow pattie,” said Aindreas.
Uilleam paused to inspect the buzzing flies. “No,” he said. “Megabjorn.”
“Megabjorn?” Lamech asked, his voice rising an octave. “Did I translate that right: megabear?”
“Ya did indeed, bard,” said Uilleam with a smirk. “What do ye think we hang our bear bags every night?”
Keogh did some quick mental calculations. “We hang those bags fifteen feet high and eight feet away from the nearest tree.” The elves eyes narrowed. “Are you saying…”
“Aye. The reach of a megabjorn is long. Pray ye never find out just how long.”
They all shivered at the thought, hurrying their pace.
They climbed over a thousand feet, then descended nearly as much, the constant shift in elevation a taxing rhythm for their legs and lungs. The plan had been to reach Gruvarby, pick up new provisions, perhaps even enjoy the promised luxury of a hot wash. But the Kir Kurad had other plans.
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