[color=goldenrod][i][h2][center]Gerard Segremors[/center][/h2][/i][/color]

[@Eisenhorn]

[color=goldenrod]"Where it's thickest."[/color] he replied after a moment's thought, cupping his chin with a gauntleted hand. In truth, he likely had cause enough to simply defer to Rolan's better-maintained skills in navigation, tracking, and general bushcraft— while he had never been so privileged as to allow the skills to truly atrophy, even as field infantry, it was still a stark contrast to what he knew of Sir Rolan's skillset. The man had seemed to melt into the thicket with little prompting by the end of their time in the crucible with Thrinax.

But a rural boy rarely lacked in his share of folk tales and half-heeded warnings regarding the fae, and he grew up near more than an old enough wood for them to have been beaten into his head all the same. Their search then proceeded in earnest as they fanned out, starting along the more beaten path—

[color=goldenrod]"Places where the woods may part off the path, circles of toadstools, fluid markings upon clear-faced stones or tree trunks— Where I'm from, at least, things of that nature are hallmarks of being close to entering territory they've laid claim to."[/color] he explained, scanning the ground. [color=goldenrod]"A change in the air as well. Not eyes on you like you're being stalked, but... closer to a sense of disorientation. Like you can't remember which way you just came from. The usual stuff. If things get a little weird, I snuck away one of the pastries they were carting in for Lady Gertrude— we may as well look out for scraps of prior offerings on that note. Basket for tarts or something."[/color]