The rain stopped.
It cut off at the treeline, as if the canopy above had been holding it back. Mist replaced it. White, heavy, clinging to everything - bark, rope, the undersides of leaves broad enough to shelter two people. The air was warm. Wet. It smelled like sap, soil and wet earth.
The convoy reached a gate - a trunk section two meters thick, hollowed and carved, fitted with a copper spotlight that burned amber light through the fog. A figure stood beside it in a hooded coat, armed with a long-handled tool.
