((Closed to Visla Eraclaire and Lisean))

"We have to come at it from the north, sir. See here?"

The elf, who looked so terribly young even for one of these people of perpetual youth, tapped furiously at the map. It had been unfurled partially, rocks from nearby propped on the edges, the youth's grubby hand keeping it from rolling back on itself.

Findelfin nodded, "I see what you mean, Linan. But why can't we take the southeastern route?"

He pointed to the map with the tip of his dagger, tracing an imaginary line from their current position northwards, then sinuously following the course of a meandering southern stream into the heart of their target. "We could use the stream to disguise our scent from the tracking beasts in the forest, and we'd be able to be in and out by nightfall, rather then forcing camp once on the way in and once on our way back."

Linan shook his head ferociously, "No, General, I'm sorry. Speed won't work in this case, that route puts us directly in the path of the patrols of the Corrupted Elves. You know we can't face them with so few!"

Findelfin nodded his approval. He had, of course, known of their corrupted brethren. But Linan was so terribly young; every moment they could spare for strategic and tactical discussion would teach the young elf how to survive in such horrifying times.

"Good, Linan. Let's move, then, a long day awaits us."

Picking up the map and stowing it in his pack, Linan allowed himself a smile, "Whatever you say, General. You're the commander."

Findelfin merely shouldered his own pack, slipped his dagger back into his belt, and set off, a few gestures indicating to his team that they were to follow quietly, swiftly, and far enough apart that they could cover more ground with watchful eyes. There was also the fact that the more spread out they were, the easier at least some of them could get away in the event of an ill-fated engagement. But no one wanted to think about that.

Findelfin moved underneath the trees quickly, effectively, but his mind was nowhere near as focused. He fingered his rosary silently, thoughtfully. He had still not gotten over his strange experiences of late...other worlds, other minds, holy books which spoke to his heart, phrases which still sprung unbidden to his mind as if imposed upon it by another force. How can we sing the songs of Zion in a strange land?

Suddenly, he heard a snap ahead of him, like a foot on a twig. With a swift whistle, made to sound like the mating call of a flute-mouthed warbler, he signaled his team. And with another quick mental blast, born of years of experience in Turlin telepathy, he had given them their instructions: bows out, surround, and pounce.

In a few seconds his bow was up, an arrow was on the string, and he was stepping into a clearing with his arrows trained on another being, four elves each emerging from a different direction to do the same. Had the being been undead, it would have already died its second death. But it was a man, so Findelfin was willing to give him one chance.

"Why are you here, stranger, in the forest where the quick and the dead do battle?"