Having already gathered his rations, blankets and other necessaties, Elleraden had only to collect his array of weaponry for the trip.
Entering his tent, he found his newly polished broadsword. Sheathing it, the ranger chose several knives from the wall, along with a small, light bow and a quiver of arrows. A sad smile crossed his face as he read the name carved into the bow. It had been his father's, and was the only piece of knowledge he had about either of his parents.
Then, opening a specially carved wooden case, he withdrew his prize weapon. It was a small hatchet, which could be thrown if the need came. Its heavily polished black handle flashed in the lantern light, attached to a the cold steel of the crescent blade. It carried no jewel, but still held the beauty of an earlier age, and a greater one. A tool not for decoration, but for death.
Hurrying outside, he attached the various weapons to his leather belt and heaved the bags onto his horse. Once finished, Elleraden reported to Islist.
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