Sir Maron Vendal stood at the edge of the small hill that overlooked the narrow mouth of the newly-discovered dungeon. The rising mist clung to the rocks like a veil, thick and slow to move. His grey eyes scanned the forest line, and the mouth of the dungeon beneath, his thoughts far too heavy for the early morning.
Behind him, rows of tents dotted the ground like chess pieces, soldiers moving among them in slow but disciplined fashion. Smoke curled up from a few cooking fires, and the scent of morning rations filled the air. Maron turned as a man in worn but polished steel approached.
"Sir Maron," the soldier bowed slightly. "Provisions have arrived from Fenroth town. Salted meats, dried fruits, iron-tipped arrows, and basic medical supplies. We are still waiting for alchemical oil and firebombs."
"Very well, Captain Rhys," Maron replied, crossing his arms over his breastplate. "Have the rations counted and repacked. Priority to the scouts and the group going into the dungeon."
