1.0 - The Marsh Bell

Setting up camp goes easily enough -- even with you a bit more tired than you were before. You're certain once daylight breaks, you'll be able to find Balin's camp with the information given to you by Galion. As the night settles around you the marshes come alive with all manner of croaking and annoying beasts announcing their presence.

Gilly's innate curiosity about things has her looking about into the darkness from time to time. And as your campfire settles down to a more pleasant glow, she catches sight of the occasional flickering light in the middle-distance.

By this point, Robin is fast asleep against a tree, with a belly full of food.

Gilly is intensely curious, but knows better than to wander off in the dark on her own. She points out the lights to anyone still awake, and carefully draws an arrow in the dirt indicating the direction she saw them, so they can explore in the morning.

Frór, still attempting to proficiently execute his duties as look-out, peers intently at the flickering light, as pointed out by Gilly.

"Maybe our own campfire looks something like that, eh? Could it be other travellers?" he half-rhetorically asks the hobbit. Then, much more loudly, he calls out with a loud shout towards the flickering light, "Oy there! Traveller! Why not join us by our fire?"

The flickering lights are quiet and do not respond to Fror's entreaty or Robin's snores. It would appear that if you're like to figure out what's there now, then you'll have to hoof it over there.

"Well drat! Why don't they just join us? I'll go get 'em and bring 'em 'ere. Any yous wants ta come with?" asks Frór as he hoists his mattock over his shoulder and prepares to hoof it over there.

Gilly holds up a hand, "I don't think that is wise, friend dwarf. Not all lights are friendly."

Inar nods as Gilly speaks, his dozing having been interrupted by the commotion. "Aye, if they aren't bothering us I'd say best to leave them be" he says whilst staring at the lights, his hand unconsciously resting on his sword hilt.

"I see. Wiser again, you are," agrees Frór, "Well, I'll keep watch as best I can," as he settles in for the night.

With that settled, you settle into a routine of sleeping, following your usual watch pattern. The lights in the distance make no effort to come any closer to your own fire -- nor do they offer any encouragement or calls to join them at their fire. In the end, as dawn approaches, your sentry notices the lights die down.

Morning arrives early enough - each of you having rested sufficiently well enough to restore your energy levels. The sunlight shines against the edges of the Mountains of Mirkwood and their foothills -- not twenty miles distant to the west. The air is cool still, given the spring weather, but you sense the marshes eagerness to close in and give a home to crushing humidity.Despite the rest, you're eager to move on to find what more you can about Balin and Oin -- and as a result, breakfast is another lackluster affair.

Frór has already forgotten the lights they saw in the night. "Well, let's go find Lord Balin this morning, shall we?"

...but he could be easily reminded or persuaded to investigate the place where the lights were seen in the night.

Gilly sighs internally, knowing that their mission is more important than her curiosity. She takes a few minutes to find some rocks to make her little arrow more permanent...just in case.

With the consensus being that your quarry is more important than the lights in the evening -- you press onward, and within an hour, tops, find yourself at the place Galion described. In his defense it is precisely what he said it would be. On the other hand, it barely looks like it qualifies as a 'camp site'. It is a patch of dry land, rising to the west of the river course a few miles north of where a stream that descends from the Mountains of Mirkwood joins the Running River.

Gilly looks around for any sign that the dwarven party had been here recently.

Robin joins in the search, puffing away on his pipe.

Thovetar also joins in the search, smoking his pipe.

Whilst the others search for signs of the Dwarves Inar keeps a close eye on there surroundings, looking out for any other issues

Taking up his ornate walking stick, Frór idly scratches dwarfish runes in the dirt around the "camp": O, Lord Balin, whither hast thou departed?

Looking at his handiwork, Frór thinks it seems a little melodramatic, but he doesn't have the internal words to actually describe it that way to himself, so he just looks at the runes quizzically and discomfitedly, yet not willing to erase them...