The warband sets out, everyone ready, everyone tense. The rain has held off, and the three-quarter moon casts good light even through the canopy of the forest. With the mules (and Sven) bringing up the rear, the group travels along the route scouted earlier in the day.
As the warband nears Gowys, the pace slows and those up front warily check for an ambush. For a time, every sound, every footstep, seems magnified, and the warband painstakingly draws nearer to the village. Somewhere in the distance an owl hoots, and each man can feel the hackles raise on his spine.
Soon, the smell of hearths is added to the sounds of the night. The occasional flicker of light escapes through shutters but the village is otherwise dark. In the moonlight, the warband can see that the gates of the manorhouse are closed, but there is no sign of a watch. Slowly, ever so much slower than a normal pace, the party makes its way around the village. After almost two hours, the warband has circled around the village, and has reached the trail again. Still proceeding with caution, the march continues for another hour, at which time they make camp for the night.
Not a soul has been seen.