You'd have to be a much thinner person to duck behind those spindly trees but there is plenty of undergrowth to provide cover. Hopefully, it's not not poison ivy because you're going to have to hunker down into that unknown plant life in order to be hidden. You crouch down and adjust as steathily as you can while listening to the approaching group. Amid the creak of wooden wheels and hooves on the packed dirt road there's the jingle of metal. It could be the harnesses but there's a lot of jingling. If it's the harnesses those horses are wearing scalemail.

It's not the horses that are wearing all the armor, it's the riders. Two come into view before the cart. The closer is a woman wearing a combination of chainmail and plated armor. Her helmet is off and her sandy brown hair is plastered to her face with sweat. What isn't soaked from perspiration is tied behind her neck and tucked into her armor. There's an ugly, red scar down her cheek and her shoulders sag with exhaustion. She's not paying attemtion to the road ahead of her and doesn't even cast a side eye in your direction.

Beside her rides a much larger... Uh. You're pretty sure it's male. He's large and green. Not the I-drank-too-much-and-mixed-my-liqours-about-to-hurl -green. His skin is a shade best described as chartreuse. His hair is a shade of teal blue that clashes horrendously with his skin. It's spiked into a mowhawk in front but falls into a braid down his back. Feathers and beads decorate his long ears that flop a bit with each plodding step his horse takes. Two yellow tusks protrude from his mouth. One green hands held the limp reins but the other grasped an embellished wooden staff at ready. He isn't as oblivious to the road and gives the undergrowth in which you hide a good look but doesn't pull his horse to a stop.

You hold your breath and stay completely still. He says something to the woman at his side in a language you don't understand but she pulls her horse to a stop while raising a hand in the air. The creaking wagon comes into view, nearly running the woman over. Two more sit on the front bench. The one holding the reins to the pulling horse is small and stocky. He has a beard, plate armor, and a huge battle axe strapped to his back. The other is completely cloaked but holds a bow and arrow at ready. He's glancing around, unsure of what he should be aiming at.

It's an adventuring party, you think, and struggle not to laugh and give away your location. A closer look at the woman in front reveals what may be religious symbols on her armor, the paladin. The troll, you suppose, must be a shaman or druid of some sort from all the talismans that decorate his body. The dwarf drivign the wagon is clearly a warrior and the hooded figure is a ranger. You wouldn't be surprised if he had pointed ears under that hood. You've landed in a mixed MMORG. Before you can reveal you're hiding location to confront/laugh at this party the woman yells out.

"Who is there?" There's a thick accent to those three words and the flow is wrong, like she knows how to say words but not what they mean. Are you going to answer?

Of course I'll answer, LARPers don't scare me.

I'm staying silent. They'll move on and I can follow them.