Stagwell lifted himself carefully from the saddle, slipping down onto the wet grass. It was a cool evening - their was a dampness about the air, but it was more irritating than refreshing. Clapping a hand appreciatively against the side of the horse, he tied it loosely to a nearby tree trunk, leaving it to nuzzle the grass. Turning, he wandered forward warily, lowering himself into a crouch and peering into the darkness. Light was filtering away swiftly, as day retired and evening fully emerged. Despite the worsening visibility, it was unmistakable in the distance.
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((Baranor's Hall))
