The next day, the snowfall had ended. The country was covered in white and seemed frozen still in the morning that rose, cold and clear. The cattle hadn't woken yet when Thorn set out to the woods to the West side of the town, as he wanted to be the first to reach the meeting place. The previous evening, he had disappeared in the dark and had headed East first. He had gone around the town to the South and had taken shelter in a forsaken stable. Even though accustomed to sleeping out in the wild, the idea of sleeping in the snow didn't appeal to him. Now however he was heading North. When he was well among the trees he picked a thick fir and climbed it with nimble movements.
In two hours he had reached the old chapel from tree to tree. From the building, only the arch above the entrance and a few portions of the wall still stood - massive hewn granite blocks. It had been a place of worship for Gwaeron in days long past, a minor deity of the woods. It was obvious humans had built the chapel at a crossroads in the old wood. An elf would never think of worshipping a god of nature in a man-made place.
Thorn sat as comfortable as he could on a thick lower branch of an old fir tree, resting his body against the trunk. He took care not to shake the branches and make snow fall. He pulled his hood over his face and began his long wait. He hoped that he had been convincing enough the night before and that the strangers in the inn were curious, adventurous, greedy or bored enough, or whatever else it might motivate them, to show up at the appointed time. He had a good outlook over the crossroads from where he sat and his clothes hid him well. Thus, he would see them in time, just as he would see clumsy Drogo, who was bound to come from the North.