Feet back on solid ground, the Casns fighter obligingly wraps his kilt around glowing nether-bits. Slapping Themp on the back he answers. "Thenkin et was ae fine ae night as aany fer ae swim! Ahnd Ah see yoo ded too!"
Hefting the great club the barbarian gives it a few perfunctory swings as he walks to Nme'ans side. With a, literally, beaming smile he hands the weapon to the paladin. "Beootiful naught fer a swim." he again proclaims, grinning at the cheering townsfolk.
After promptly hacking and coughing at the strong blow on his back, Themp finally catches his breath and answers the big man.
"Well, there are ladies and children all over observing us... Plus, it was only a pair of trousers. I have a spare"
"Besides", after a quick glance around, he adds with a playful slap at the barbarian's shoulder, in a whisper, "considering the party they're about to throw you, I might not even need them for the night." *wink*
"Nicely done, Mtu Mkubwa," Nme'an says. He then walks over to the mayor and presents the weapon to the mayor saying only, "Your club."
Beorae, still somewhere between disbelief, amusement, and acceptance, silently dispels the magic lighting up the highlander. She then re-coils her silk rope and stows it in her pack before picking up Shark's leash. Still silent, she tries to read the crowd's reaction to the events that just unfolded.
Mayor Garwell ceremoniously accepts the club and holds it up and the cheering is redoubled. More residents from homes further from the riverside approach to see the source of the commotion, and likewise join in the cheering. Many of the lumberjacks fiercely pat Mot on the back and shoulders, and Themp is nearly deafened by compliments like “good thinking!” and “smart decision!” In no time, most of the town surrounds the four, save for a wide berth around Shark, shaking hands and offering sincere gratitude.
A shriek of terror from the town center silences the crowd, who all turn to see a large black figure bounding on all fours toward them. Too furry to be a man, but unmistakably bipedal in form, the galloping creature appears to be dressed in leather armor and trousers. A sword sheath wags from his belt, and a black fur coat covers powerful shoulders, arms, and bestial feet. The head is a man’s, but not a man’s; covered in fur, a short canine nose, tufted, pointed ears, and long, yellow fangs flash by the torchlight. Savage, hateful eyes burn with bloodlust as the wolf-man barrels ever nearer to the crowd at a remarkable speed.
Pandemonium erupts. Families scramble back into their homes, stumbling over each other and clutching their children close. Mothers scream and fathers bellow for their woodaxes, and Mayor Garwell’s attempts to organize resistance is drowned out by the clamor. She no longer holds the silver greatclub.
The bestial man is nearly on a fleeing family with upraised claws when the bearded watchman throws himself at the werewolf with the shining weapon in his hands! “Back, you foul beast!”
The watchman brings down the mighty weapon, but the werewolf is too quick! Swatting the blow aside, the man-beast steps in to slash long claws below the salt-and-pepper beard, and a lethal amount of blood cascades down the man’s chest. The watchman collapses to the ground, reddening the mud around him. Laying next to him is the silver club. Reveling in spilled blood, werewolf turns a long, chilling howl to the dark sky.
"Anyone who can fight, find a weapon! We are removing your town of this wereworlf tonight!" Nme'an yells, his common understandable, but not quite as clear as he would have liked.
He draws his sword, readies his shield and then, while advancing, utters a seldom used prayer in Elven under his breath, calling upon the power to the attacking creature.
With a growl of his own Mot springs towards the brave, foolhardy watchman. Stopping just out of reach of the club and foe-beast the highlander strikes his chest and roars at the snarling wolf man.
At the sight of the beast, Themp freezes up midway through with his leather armor.
Wolf. Big. Towards me.
Mot's roar fortunately snaps him out of it. In a reflex, he draws his bow and shoots at the werewolf.
However, due to the commotion, his shot flies wide. In some wicked sort of way luckily, the watchman was already down. The arrow would've hit him right between the shoulderblades otherwise.
The hackles on Shark's neck raise at the beast's scent, and the cat lowers himself to a crouch, approaching the werewolf with fangs bared.
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Of all the… “Back for more, Mooncaller? Where's your pack? Ignis!” Beorae's hand erupts in flame. While Mot charges in, the druidess takes measured steps, staying behind Shark and brandishing the fire for the werewolf to see. “This time we will finish you!” With a thrust of her hand, a fireball streams toward the werewolf.
Even before the flames reach their target, her hand is wreathed in fire once again.
A few of the lumberjacks meet Nme’an’s eyes and nod to acknowledge the order before turning to their homes. Beorae does not see any other wolves or werewolves in the chaos, but she detects a soft whipping behind her, from Mayor Garwell, and a miniscule, hard metal ball bounces unnoticed off the werewolf’s thick hide.
The wolfman bristles at the big cat and the highlander, his low growl interrupted by an explosion of fire over his chest. The blast draws his attention to Beorae, and he roars when he recognizes his foes. “Firehand! Now your pack will be SHREDDED!”
At the last word he lunges at Shark with a flurry of claws and teeth.
Shark dodges one claw, but the other hooks into his furry neck and lacerates deeply before pulling away. The big cat flinches away from Mooncaller’s snapping fangs.
With three bounds the highlander is by the side of the fallen watchman, but the Casns art is not to heal, but to hurt. Stooping low, mammoth hands grasp the great club and heft it into a readied grip. Mots eyes turn to the beast mere feet away, red starting to tinge his vision...
Beorae continues to try and hold the werewolf's concentration, hoping that any distraction will open an opportunity for the others. “The pack disowned you, didn't they?” Raising both hands above her head, she calls a loud “Aquilis!” into the wild night as she pulls her arms down quickly. In an instant, as if out of nowhere, an eagle flies into the fray , screaming above the clamor as if it were holding death itself in its talons .
______________________________________
Shark roars loudly as the Werewolf's claw strikes home, but the tiger immediately redoubles his attack, seeking blood. Claws and fangs flash in the dying light of day, almost too fast to see.
______________________________________
Nme'an can't help but feel a bit for Beorae's tiger as it suffers another wound in service to is master. The worry is short lived though as the Paladin spots a clear path to the werewolf open before him as Shark strikes back.
forward, Nme'an takes a swing at the werewolf's midsection.
for
Cursing at his terrible shot, doubly so when Shark gets a chunk bitten out of him, Themp snatches up the Alchemist's Fire bottle from his pile of gear and readies another shot.
The mayor reloads her sling, but fumbles as she begins to build momentum and the bullet falls to her feet. One of Shark’s claws find purchase, but fail to pierce the wolfman’s thick hide! Themp's arrow sails overhead, into a thatched roof. The paladin’s longsword slices cleanly into the monster’s flesh, and comes away bloody.
“They disowned me, so I TORE THEM TO PIECES!”
Snarling at Nme’an’s attack, Mooncaller turns his claws to the armored half-elf. The knight blocks one with his shield while the other drags harmlessly across the bands of metal covering Nme'an's chest.
"As we are about to do to you!' Nme'an retorts as he thrust his sword towards his foe.
for
"Machozi kwa vipande ... si kujikana mimi maana ..." the knight says to himself.
"Tear to pieces... not disown I mean..."
With an awkward hop Mot tries to get into the wolfmans blind-spot, but his muscles begin to betray him as a bloodlust of his own takes control.
"Curse this damned wolfman!", shouts Themp as he pockets the flask and readies another shot.
Focus, Themp. Focus. What can we do to bring this beast down?
He takes a deep breath and lets the arrow soar.
With the man-wolf-beast surrounded, Shark growls and takes another swing.
___________________________________________
Now that the others have closed-in, Beorae takes a quick step toward the dying man on the ground. She attempts to staunch the intense bleeding.
____________________________________________
As if out of nowhere, an eagle soars into the fray , screaming above the clamor as if it were holding death itself in its talons.
Another errant attack from the Mayor’s sling thuds against the house beyond her target.
The wolfman sees an opening as the highlander moves into position, and reaches a hairy arm to draw blood.
Mot feels the claws catch in his shirt of chain, which jingles as they pull away. The beast ducks out of the way of the Casns’ mighty swing, and growls as Nme’an delivers another stab. Still facing the highlander, an arrow buries deep into the wolfman’s course back, but the monster scarcely flinches at the hit. Shark’s claws and teeth are dodged as the eagle attacks from above, sharp talons and hard bite harassing Mooncaller’s head and shoulders. The raptor pulls away thick tufts of fur, but the beast seems unharmed. Beorae’s gentle hands quickly slow the bleeding, but the watchman still lays at death’s door.
The arrow did not seem to harm the werewolf at all, though Shark’s and the eagle’s attacks are also not getting through the thick fur and the tough hide beneath. Only Nme’an’s sword seems to be hurting it, though Mot has yet to connect with the specially-made silver club. The werewolf appears to be capable of shrugging off some debilitating wounds, but not all of them.
Seeing the berserker wielding the silver club surges the werewolf with desperate vigor, and he attacks the Casns again, but not before flicking unexpected claws to keep back the half-elf’s sacred blade!
His long claws dig into Nme’an’s neck, pouring blood down the paladin’s armor! His next swipe rakes down the highlander’s face, and Mot instinctively flinches back and avoids the wolfman’s bite.
Two of the lumberjacks seen earlier return, running up alongside the river, brandishing simple woodaxes but looking completely lost at how to contribute as they get closer to the battle.
The blood pouring into his eyes mingles with the red already clouding his vision as the mighty Casns fighter roars in unholy fury! Stretching to his almost seven feet of angry sinew and straining muscle Mot raises the Greatclub over his head! Growling more like a half-beast than a man himself, he brings the weapon whipping through the air!
"It's not getting hurt by anything but the blade, the cursed thing!", exclaims Themp to anyone within earshot.
He runs closer to the fray and fires another one, hoping to be luckier this time.
Yet again, his aim goes awry. Luckily, if not for Themp then for everyone else, there was no one in the general direction that the arrow sailed at.
A bunch of pidgeons, however, did emerge from a hole at ceiling of the house Themp thoroughly nailed, frightened by the loud thud.
Nme'an instinctively grasps at his neck, but when his hand touches his wound something amazing happens!
The knight feels power flow from his hand into his wound passing straight through his heavy armor. Unseen beneath the steel bands, the skin along Nme'an's neck quickly knits itself back together sealing the wound. Much of the pain and trauma is still there, unfortunately, but clearly some healing magic was involved!
"Kufa!" Nme'an yells as he regrips his sword and attacks once more!
for
"Die!"
Beorae's eyes go wide when Mooncaller slashes at Nme'an's throat, but the druid does not skip a beat. In a flash, the druid sidesteps behind the paladin, drawing the new wand from her pocket. Holding the stick of wood in her still-flaming hand, Beorae reaches out and touches Nme'an, channeling healing energies.
_______________________________________
The eagle lashes out again with a fresh round of attacks.
And just as quickly as it appeared, the creature disappears into the sky.
_______________________________________
Shark gives a low growl and slashes at the wolf-man again with tooth and claw.
The shining club arcs downward, catching the top of the werewolf’s head and driving it deep into the mud. The man-beast lays face down as oozing crimson mixes with the dark wet earth, unmoving save for his hairy, heaving back. That is, until Nme’an’s sword plunges deep into the fallen foe’s chest, and the last breath gurgles up from the mud and the blood.
After a moment, the dead, hulking wolfman begins to diminish in size, sloughing off the thick coat of black fur, until the form before the champions and the timidly gathering townsfolk is a young male half-elf. Multiple cuts from Nme’an’s blade still remain, as do severe burns on his chest and a bloodied and misshapen skull, but the pointed ears and stocky humanesque build are unmistakable in the studded leather armor. Mayor Garwell carefully turns over the body and wipes mud off the face, but she appears perplexed, not recognizing the young, dead face. Only about a dozen men and women venture from their homes and grimly thank the four, not turning their eyes from the unfamiliar body in the street.
“Whoever he is,” Sharon Garwell raises her voice, “He is not from here. Perhaps he lived among the wood elves, and called our home his hunting grounds. Let us toss this monster into the river, worthy of neither burial, pyre, or elven ceremony.”
Many of the lumberjacks nod at this, and stoop to drag the body away.
The elves of Carenthir traditionally dig a shallow grave for their fallen kin, and burn the body. When the fires go out, the ashes are buried with a tree sapling planted over them.
The mayor turns to the four. “Follow me to Deloris’, where there’s better lighting to patch you up.”
She instructs the townsfolk, gesturing to the fallen watchman, "Someone please bring Tom, too."
She turns and marches to the large house, but the four are delayed by the multitude of handshakes-turned-hugs from the men and women of Axton.
"Hang on!, shouts Themp as he approaches, fear gone. A giant wolfman is too much, but a mauled half-elf? THAT I can deal with.
Once he is closer to the group, he continues, "Since you people do not know where this beast came from and certainly not why he'd hold such a violent psyche, I think it is best we search him for leads and hints before you... dispose of him. At least for caution's sake."
Beorae realizes that she had been holding her breath during the last few moments, and lets out a sigh of relief as the figure morphs back to his humanoid form. Leaning closer, she holds out her fiery hand as a torch and inspects what's left of the once-werewolf. The disfigured features of the man are difficult to look at, but she still tries to see if she can discern anything about him or where he might have come from.
Standing back, she extinguishes the flame in her hand and looks to the elderly watchman on the ground. As the two men with axes approach, she says to them, “You two, help get this man to a healer.”
The two latecomers to the fight leap at the chance to help, carefully scooping up their neighbor and gently carrying him to Deloris’ house. “Deloris can help. She’s got the healer’s touch.”
The lumberjacks holding up the half-elf's body nod at Themp's reasoning and let the body plop to the ground, looking at the dead half-elf from where they stand, but not really searching him. They step back to get out of Themp's way.
The street urchin sees that the armor is not a mastercraft like his own, though it would still function in a fight, or fetch a fair price from a buyer. The ripped trousers are ruined beyond all fashionable sense, but the belt holding them on also keeps a dagger and sheathed longsword. Neither blades are rusty, in fact the steel in the longsword appears to be in excellent condition. Its edges are sharp and straight, and the whole weapon is well-balanced from point to pommel.
Nme'an too gazes on the half-elf, wondering if he knows him.
Upon hearing what the villagers plan on doing with the body, Nme'an steps up to object.
"We do not know what drove this person to such violence," the Paladin says, his voice raspy and weak from his injury, "but it is done now and I would see him properly buried."
Noticing how weak he sounds he once again touches his neck further heals himself.
Themp kneels down next to the half-elf and searches him, unstrapping the armor and belt and checking every pocket. So far, he leaves every item he finds laying on the ground next to him.
Beorae looks over the items as Themp lays them on the ground.
Mot flinches and half raises the heavy weapon as the first hand slaps his broad shoulders, but just as quickly the club falls back to the ground. With a couple of deep breaths the warrior begins to regain his strength. Wiping thick handfuls of blood to clear his vision, the Casns looks down on their vanquished foe. Shock and dismay take his bearded visage as he chokes off a sob. "Wha haev Ah doon!? Wheer es tha wheerwoolf?!"
Great bloody hands cover his eyes and the still dripping wounds across his face. The silver great club is dropped to the muddy ground. "Nae again, pleese nae again..." Can be barely heard over the sound of soft, if large, tears.
Finally noticing the sobbing giant lumbering over here, Themp realizes something is wrong with the barbarian.
"What it is, Casns? What's wrong? You're sad you'll have to take a second bath in the same day?", playfully mocks the scoundrel, bumping his shoulder on the big man's knee, hoping to lighten the mood.
Nothing strikes about this half-elf strikes Themp as familiar. Given the state of his clothes, he probably lived on the road, too afraid to settle in one place where his condition might be found out. His lack of coin means he likely stole or hunted for food. It is entirely possible that he came from the Carenthir Forest, though the wood elves are not known to harbor such malicious and accursed beasts. With that in mind, perhaps this wolfman was driven into human lands when the elves began hunting him.
Looking over the armor, the thief knows this couldn’t be sold for anymore than 12 gold pieces and 5 silver. As for the longsword, he knows that blades of this quality can only be bought by the life-savings of a common working man, meant to be passed down and maintained through the generations. How much a “life savings” could be, Themp isn’t sure, though.
The druid knows the market price for daggers of this quality to be a mere 2 gold pieces. The most she could expect to sell it for would be half of that price.
As for the longsword, she knows that blades of this quality can only be bought by the life-savings of a common working man, meant to be passed down and maintained through the generations. How much a “life savings” could be, Beorae isn’t sure, though. At least 300 gold pieces, that much is certain.
The simple folk grimace at Nme’an’s insistence, and some look for the mayor hoping that she disagrees, but she is already out of earshot and inside Deloris’ house. The lumberjacks hesitate, weighing their losses against the words of the knight. Eventually they nod, perhaps more to avoid making the paladin angry than to honor the dead half-elf. One of them answers Nme’an, “Alright, we’ll do it. Thankee agee-in, Sir Knight and, uh, the rest’a you. We’re much indedded to ya, but a mite poor fer repaymi’t.”
There is an awkward silence at this admission from the majority of the townsfolk. The two shrug and start to take the body beyond the edge of town for burial.
Nme'an eyes the clearly superior longsword for a moment but quickly turns back to the matter at hand. Negotiations for the weapon can wait...
"I invite any who wishes to help with this poor soul's burial, or to merely observe, to follow me now, " he says as loudly as his still injured throat will allow. He looks over his companions and what few towns people remain and says, "No ill will be thought of you if you decline... Certainly not by me." Nme'an stands for a moment, sure that something else should be said, that some further explanation should be given to the families who may very well have been impacted by the half-elf's violence, but the proper words fail to come to him. He turns and begins following the two lumberjacks without so much as a glance back to see if anyone decided to follow.
Rubbing his hand across his pained throat once more, Nme'an is surprised by the jolt of power that flows soothingly from his hand. There is some ache left after the cooling sensation subsides, but the knight can feel that his injury is near to being completely healed.
"Oh, I want to be sure the damn werewolf is buried deep myself. I'm definitely coming along, paladin.", answers Themp
Turning to the barbarian, he continues, "Mot, you coming along? I'd think you of all people would like to see the wolf bastard six feet under."
Nme'an turns in surprise, sure that if anyone in his group were to decline his offer it would be Themp. The knight nods his thanks to the street rat, but then notices Mot's strange posture and expression. He hears Themp's question and waits for the big man's reply.
Beorae hears Mot's question and cocks her head in slight confusion. “What do you mean, ‘where's the werewolf’? That man there is the werewolf,” she says, pointing a finger at the half-elf on the ground. “He changed back to his natural form when he died. You must have missed it…” Taking note of Mot's apparent confusion, the druidess makes a mental note to ask the highlander more about this. Later.
The tall druidess looks to the mayor, “I don't think this should take long, and the five of us will be okay. Tom there is the one who needs immediate help, and we'll be back soon.” Putting an arm through Mot's, Beorae tugs the big man in Nme'an's direction. “Come on, let's do this.”
Many of the villagers begin to return to their homes and out of the driving rain. The two carrying the half-elf find an agreeable spot a good distance from the town. Another lumberman joins the burial party with shovels and a hooded lantern as the rain makes the earth soft, but heavy. Lightning sporadically flashes over the soggy, deepening grave, and rolling thunder drowns out the wind and river. When the knight deems the grave sufficient, the handful of Axton men lower the half-elf into the hole. Covered in mud and catching their breath from the work, they stand there silently leaning on their shovels.
Once the body is laid in the grave Nme'an steps forth and begins to speak to the few assembled in the woods. Words that he could not find before now sprung to his lips as if divine will.
"As a half elf I know what it is like to be an outcast. To be shunned by childhood friends, by my town, and by even much of my own family. It tears at your soul and makes you consider... things. How much worse might this fellow's life have been then once he was found to be afflicted with his accursed disease? No excuse can be made for the things he did, which is why he lies dead before us, but perhaps we can find it in ourselves to acknowledge that his too was a life of suffering from which he deserves a proper rest."
Nme'an then steps closer to the grave and kneels before it. "Nasikitika tunaweza kuzika kwa moto. Inaweza moto Sarenrae ya clense roho yako ya matendo yako mchafu na basi wewe kupata baadhi ya hatua ya mapumziko," the Paladin says softly. He stands once more then looks among the others in case they also wish to say a few words. His gaze lingers on Mot in particular, who's reaction to the werewolf's death was... different... than Nme'an had expected.
"I am sorry we could not bury you with fire. May Sarenrae's fire clense your soul of your foul deeds and let you find some measure of rest."
Salty tears mix with the flowing blood as Mot wipes his eyes, the first hints of comprehension dawning on his face. Still somewhat dazed, he allows himself to be led to the impromptu funeral. The warrior attempts as solemn an expression as he can while the Paladin speaks, but says nothing himself during the proceedings. By the end of Nme'ans words the big man is almost back to himself, finally convinced that the mangled half-elf and bloodthirsty werewolf were indeed one an the same.
Retrieving the Greatclub he waits until the others are ready to find the healer.
Originally planning to make a snide comment on the werewolf's sure death, Themp finds himself stumped at Nme'an's short-yet-thought-provoking speech.
Odd. I have never thought of them as outcasts. As unwanted. I have always seen them as bullies and cocky. It all makes so much sense now.
The shovel men refill the waterlogged hole and pack the fresh dirt flat then quickly leave, the continuing rain the least of their reasons for their hasty retreat. Nme'an stays behind just a little longer in order to find a sapling for the grave. He removes his armored gauntlets and digs a small hole in the center of the freshly turned earth with his bare hands. His hands shake as he plants the small tree and covers the hole. Tears join with with the rain streaking down his face as the memory of not one grave, but rows of them, each marked with a tiny tree, weighs heavily on him. Especially the memory of the one sapling he was allowed to plant himself so many years ago.
"Kwa Heli'an Aldael..." Nme'an whispers.
After a few moments Nme'an stands, compose himself, and follows the others back towards the town.
"For Heli'an Aldael..."
The four champions find the watchman laid on one of the wooden tables, as Deloris and Mayor Garwell tend to his wounds by the light of lantern and crackling hearth. The housekeeper looks up and wordlessly gestures them to another table. She looks to the mayor, indicating to keep pressure on Tom’s dressed wound, and trundles over to where Axton’s heroes wait.
Weaving glowing lines of soft light into the air, Deloris silently presses warm hands over Mot’s face, Nme’an’s throat, and Shark’s neck. In no time, the wounds close and appear like new, save for some scar tissue hidden in the big cat’s thick fur, and beneath the knight’s banded collar.
The elderly woman begins to make hand signals at the four, and after a minute turns to Mayor Garwell for help.
Sharon addresses the human and half-elf visitors. “Deloris wants you to know all of you can stay here as long as you like, at no cost, meals included.”
“It’s the least she could do,” Mayor Garwell adds, after another brief gesture from Deloris.
The mayor folds her arms and takes a more formal tone. When the storm lifts I will send a raven to Brenan’s Crossing, informing the commander of your dispatch of the beast. If you intend to return to Axton soon, we can arrange to have it waiting for you here. Otherwise, the soonest I can foresee it arriving will be two days, and I understand that your mission is of some urgency.”
“As for any gratitude from my station, I fear I am at a disadvantage...” her eyes harden when they rest on the weapon carried by Mot, “but I do not care to see that weapon again. Take it, as a gift of gratitude, if you want. If you leave it here I will be sending it to the Crossing to sell, and recoup some of our losses. While we might financially poor right now, we have a few tradesmen who mastered their craft. I’m sure they would be more than willing to make repairs to any equipment a little worse for wear.”
Deloris looks over the resting watchman before bustling upstairs to prepare her spare rooms for company.
"I can understand not wanting the club around as I too have lost a family member to violent creatures," Nme'an begins sympathetically, "but I would urge you to hold on to it. My companions and I would be dead now but for that weapon, and there is no way of telling how many other werewolves this one may have made... I know it is hard, but I think the protection of your town needs to come first."
Noticing the watchman on the table, Nme'an gently claps his shoulder and softly says, "Ushujaa wako ni pongezi." Once again, unexpectedy, Nme'an feels a flow of healing power leave his hand. There is a slight difference this time however, an odd, not quite painful tingling through his fingers that seems to indicate that perhaps he has used his new gift for the final time this day.
"I do have another request," Nme'an says, turning back to the mayor once more as he remembers something of vital importance, "one much easier for you to grant, I'm sure. Might it be possible to start a fire in one of our rooms' fireplaces? We have need to dispose of... Ah... it is... rather wet out there, I'm sure you noticed, and I for one would... welcome the chance to get dry..."
"Your bravery is commendable."
Shark starts to pull away as Deloris approaches his neck wound, but the soothing energies of her magic immediately calm the big cat, and he gives the housekeeper a soft nuzzle with his nose.
Beorae smiles at the two, “Thank you, Deloris. It looks like he likes you! And your offer is very generous, although I'm not sure how long we can stay,” she says, looking at her companions for input.
Turning to the Mayor, the druidess says, “If you're referring to the bounty that Commander Morgan offered for the werewolf, then I suppose that hinges on the same question. Themp, Mot, Nme'an, how long do you think we can stay? I wouldn't mind a day or two of rest and training for Shark before heading north, but we must also make haste in our journey. Any thoughts?”
"Delay for... a bounty?" Nme'an asks incredulously. "I was inclined that we move on before, having given the town the means to once again defend itself. With Axton's safety from the werewolf now assured by its death, I do not see how we can justify waiting on a mere hunter's reward to be delivered to us..."
In a rare moment of forethought Mots forehead crinkles in a simplified version of concern. Spinning the silver club lightly in his hands he says; "Ah dinnae thenk tha Keeng is getting anny better..." Almost apologetically he looks at the mayor. Though what he thinks he should be apologizing for defies definition.