Vorgulremik feeds a few more scraps of wood to the fire, and checks on the rabbit lady he spared from the bandits.

The plumpish white-furred bunny shudders and shivers against the cold, huddled against the underside of the toppled wagon, her eyes wide with fright and disbelief at all that has transpired.

Vorgulremik keeps his distance, staying on the far side of the fire so as not to send the female into catatonia again.

Vorgulremik says, "Art thou hungry? Thirsty?"

The rabbit repeatedly mutters something under her breath, repeating the sign of the Star and Anchor over her heart – a clumsy gesture, and one which she surely has not practiced much at all before this ordeal. Her ears shoot up, and she looks over to the dragon – her eyes wide with disbelief about how this could be so wrong, so wrong. This monster … talking to her? She dares not open her mouth to answer.

Vorgulremik says, "The brigands havest fled. Thou art the only survivor of this caravan."

The bunny curls up more tightly, her eyes dancing around the scene … but daring not to look too closely at the shadowy forms on the ground painted by the light of the flickering flames.

The wind picks up in intensity, causing the branches of the trees to sway. Dark clouds roll in, blotting out the stars and the sparkling path that streaks across the sky.

Vorgulremik begins to lose patience, but still tries to maintain a congenial voice. "The rat and his retainers fled ast well. Certes, they shallt return for thee, aye?"

The bunny shuts her eyes tightly. "The rat … Curses upon him! That sword, that precious sword of his … and not to use it to save anyone! I knew it from the moment I laid eyes on him. Worthless scoundrel… " her voice trails off as the brief burst of anger fades, and with it the pittance of energy it loaned to her.

Vorgulremik smiles. "What wast your place in this ill-fated train?"

The bunny sticks up her chin. "I am Friedra Arnook, wife of Harn Arnook, a world-wide traveller, and trader of all manners of goods of unsurpassed quality." She sniffs, keeping her chin up, even despite the tears that ruin her eye-makeup and stain the fur of her cheeks.

Vorgulremik says, "Wast thine husband accompanying thee?"

The bunny does not answer the dragon with words, but her look toward the monster and the expression as all composure falls apart should be answer enough. Her head continues its downward course, burying into her knees as she starts sobbing quietly, her shoulders shaking violently.

{ So much for ransom… } o . the dragon thinks. "Thou mayst call me Remy, Milady. My liver feels thine loss."

The rabbit remains there, curled up, not evidencing any desire for chit-chat over the fire.

Vorgulremik says, "Prithee, whereto runs this road?"

The bunny sobs, shaking her head, remembering where she and her husband were going … the sights they planned on seeing … "Elamoore – to the trading ports… "

Vorgulremik hmms…

Vorgulremik says, "Canst thou ride one of these dray beasts?"

The bunny doesn't look up. "How? They're all dead. At least they've ceased with that horrid moaning… "

Vorgulremik doesn't mention WHY they stopped moaning… "Doest thou wish to finish thy journey?"

The bunny stays curled up. "What do you want from me? Haven't you done enough? Aren't you satisfied yet? Please – just GO! Oh, please, by whatever gods are listening, send him AWAy – y – " she breaks into sobs again.

Vorgulremik scowls over the fire.

Vorgulremik says, "Very well, thy fate be in the hands of the bandits."

Vorgulremik smothers the campfire with dirt. "I shall seek out the rat. Mayhap he will be more forthcoming."

The smoke wisps curl away, quickly dispersed by the gathering winds.

Vorgulremik spreads his wings, loosening them up while his nightvision returns.

No figures are lurking in the darkness that the dragon can spy … and given his keen senses, that can be assured that there are none, unless this realm is possessed of the invisible … or unless one believes in spirits of the departed who might be lingering about this site of death.

Vorgulremik launches into the night air, giving out a roar to announce himself. He climbs high enough into the cold mountain air to search for other campfires.

Below the dragon spreads wilderness, as dark below as the starless sky above … with the exception of a few flickering lights here and there. A site a short ride – or flight – west, another toward the northwest, and yet another even further north and a bit to the east, where the ground rises more steadily.

Vorgulremik banks to the northeast, figuring the furthest fire to be those fleeing the raid.

As the dragon flies closer, he can pick out about three campfires within a clearing, and a number of shelters – none permanent – in a ring.

Vorgulremik angles for a landing nearby, the cold air sapping the strength from his muscles all too quickly.

Vorgulremik circles the camp until he can approach from downwind.

With the strength of the building wind, Vorgulremik's caution is perhaps excessive … but then, one can never be too careful. It would seem that most of the camp has retreated to their shelters, though his keen senses can pick out a couple of guards along the perimeter, bundled up against the cold.

Vorgulremik approaches the nearest guard, keeping low to the ground.

The guard's alertness is far from exemplary. It would appear he's more out here on a matter of duty – and an intent to survive the chill long enough to end his shift – rather than keeping an alert eye out for intruders. That, and how bundled up the raccoon is makes it a bit awkward for him to reach his horn or weapon quickly.

Something hard bounces off of Vorgulremik's head. He can hear a pattering against the nearby foliage.

Vorgulremik suppresses a snarl, and hugs the ground. He slowly turns his head to examine the bushes from whence the sound came.

More pattering. More cold chunks of ice rain down. It's hailing!

The raccoon in the tree curses and draws his blanket over his head in a vain attempt to provide additional protection from the barrage, completely covering his head.

Vorgulremik ducks his head down, and extends one wing over it for protection. He waits to see if the guards will seek shelter back in the camp.

The dragon's suspicion proves out. The guards at last give up, no doubt either reasoning that no one else would have sense to be out here … or else that no one at camp will notice when they come bolting in. They take off.

Vorgulremik thinks, o O { I can't fly in this weather. How many could there be in that camp? } The dragon slinks towards the nearest shanty to see how many are in it.

The flimsy structure hides 3 raccoons. Assuming this to be a fair sampling, judging roughly from the sizes of the other shanties there might be a total of, oh, 15 raccoons here.

Vorgulremik scowls. He chose the wrong camp, these are probably the survivors of the raiding party. An itch at the back of his mind makes him continue to search the next shack, however. The raiders DID carry off some valuables, after all…

The next shack has only 2 raccoons in it. This might affect the overall estimate of how many are in the camp, given that there are a total of 5 structures. But while there are some bags and casks of supplies visible, there is nothing to scream "treasure".

Vorgulremik snorts in disgust, and leaves the camp. Using his wings as umbrellas, he heads west, meaning to check on the remaining two camps before returning to the road and venting his frustrations on that useless rabbit…

The way is much longer going by foot … and this First-Ones-accursed storm shows no sign of letting up. The dragon's path takes him through a clearing that he realizes is a rejoinder with the road, which his path crosses on his way to where he thinks he saw the other camps. This is, of course, far north of the site of the caravan's ill fate.

Vorgulremik keeps alert for the scent of smoke, since the fires themselves were unlikely to survive this storm.

The uneven ground rises and drops irregularly, the tangled undergrowth and the incessant hail frustrating passage. At last, the trees open up into another clearing, as the dragon slides down a short incline.

There are no signs of buildings or campfires or smoke. It would appear, rather, that this is yet another winding mountain road.

Vorgulremik growls deep in the back of his throat, angry AND frustrated now. He turns back, retracing his way to the main road.

The short slope is a bit harder to climb, but the dragon's claws make it far more easy than it would be for most, even as the hail patters against his shielding wings. Through the tangles again, and snaring branches which grapple at his wings, the dragon presses onward through the cold icy onslaught, a large part of the struggle to keep footing on the irregular ground.

After a long and winding way, having to take short detours around tight obstructions formed by fallen trees caught by the waiting arms of their comrades, the way opens up once more to … another road!

Vorgulremik turns south on the road, hoping it's the same one the caravan was following.

The dragon turns south … and then is treated to the realization that the "south" shouldn't be sloping upward like that and leading to the mountains. That is, unless the dragon has somehow managed to cross the ridge unawares.

Vorgulremik reaches the limit of his patience (such that it is), and roars at the accursed storm!

The storm roars back with full and impartial fury, the wind buffeting and biting as it sweeps down the length of the cleared section along the road.

Vorgulremik grumbles, and searches for a boulder or similar object large enough to give shelter from the cold wind. Not that his anger isn't keeping him warm enough…

As the dragon goes to the boulder, something catches his eye. There is no light by normal means to see it, but the dragon's nightvision is sufficient … and he knows it well enough for what it is. A small gem – so small as to go unnoticed even in daylight perhaps – lies in the dirt.

Vorgulremik reflexively sweeps a claw out to snatch the gem.

The tiny little gem glitters in the light only Vorgulremik can see – a pittance of a gem, but possibly of value, nonetheless. After all, one needn't a fist-sized jewel to affix upon a ring.

Vorgulremik huddles down in the lee of the boulder, and takes a closer look at the gem.

To the dragon's keen and greedy eye, the gem appears to be diamond, though it deserves closer inspection in better lighting. It is already cut – and though these are hardly conditions to give a proper appraisal, it would seem to have been done so well, to properly bring out the gem's shine and luster. If not, then it would not have stood out from all the pieces of ice shattering on the ground all about.

{ Dropped from some piece of jewelry, no doubt. } o . ponders Vorgulremik. He tucks the gem away inside his cheek, and wraps his wings tightly around himself to wait out the storm.