The line of kobolds stretched along the narrow forest path, moving with the sluggishness of an old river. For thirty-one days, they had known little but the forward motion of weary feet. Orkell watched them from his position beside Elder Lamna. He felt the weight of the eleven surviving men's spears and the responsibility for every life in the column. Their patchwork leather and cloth armor chafed against his skin, worn thin by hunger and stress. The sound of their footsteps was a dull whisper against the soft dirt path.
Lamna walked with a calm that Orkell couldn't understand. She carried the weight of their despair with quiet strength, but her eyes were never still. A little kobold girl trotted beside her, clutching at the elder's tattered robe. "Elder," she whispered, "this place is scary." Lamna looked down, smiled, and scooped the child up. "Scary? No, no. It's quiet. That's a good thing."
