Not too far out of camp, a slight elven woman sits by a stream, using a rag to wipe down her armor and staff, muttering to herself. "Maker, what a mess. That must have been the worst-placed rift yet...." At her side is a large, muscled hound, evidently standing guard. When the newcomer treads close enough, he barks to alert his mistress, who glances up sharply from her work. What is it now?