The druid recalls a few stories from hunters where the morale of the wolf pack broke if their numbers are reduced by half, and the remainder would flee to lick their wounds and hunt elsewhere. Then again, this alpha seems to have a head for tactics not expected from mere wolves...
The highlander’s greatsword bites deep into the spine of the wolf between himself and the druid. The canine yelps and staggers, but the crippling blow does not kill him completely. Feral eyes raise to Mot’s, and the wounded beast snaps back.
But the wound causes the wolf to falter, and his teeth miss their mark.
Shark bites down on wolf hind quarters, and the wolf turns to dodge his claws, returning with a bite of his own. He flinches when Beorae’s spear touches him, but otherwise pays her no heed.
Shark’s attacker bites hard into his neck, and tries to drag the big cat to the ground. But Shark bats his way out of the hold and keeps his footing. A deep wound flows blood down his shoulders.
Two wolves charge Nme’an, but the stalwart half-elf readily turns away the attacks with his shield.
The alpha wolf paces onto the road, surveying the success of his pack, seemingly unconcerned at his fallen and wounded. He begins to bark and growl at Beorae.
“Это является самым слабым, что боятся бороться, женщина, и я сильнее, чем вся стаи. Горький клык, половина уха, для меня.”
“The weakest fear to fight, female, and I am stronger than the whole of the pack. Bitterfang, Halfear, to me.”
The other two wolves to yet engage the group move to stand near the alpha wolf. Once they are close, soft whines followed by chuffs are scarcely heard among the clamor of battle.
“Mooncaller, we will lose many brothers if we continue to fight them...”
“Silence, Bitterfang,” the alpha says tersely, “You forget your place. If we lose brothers in battle, I will make more. One of them looks promising.” The alpha wolf, Mooncaller, turns a meaningful look to mighty Mot.
Furious that the wolf still stands, and is even attempting to fight him, Mot brings his sword around in a vicious low arching swing.
'Damn, not good!' Nme'an thinks as he glances back and see the trouble his companions are in.
In an effort to clear space around the Urlghain, Nme'an between Mot and Shark then thrusts his longsword at the crippled wolf's head.
Beorae draws a gasp when the wolf gets a solid grab on Shark, but she is relieved to see that he doesn't drag her companion to the ground. In a flash of grey, the tiger strikes back at the wounded wolf , going straight for its throat.
The druid overhears the disturbing exchange between Mooncaller and Bitterfang—what's this about ‘creating more‘ wolves?!—and deciding that she's not getting anywhere fast with the spear, Beorae casts the weapon aside and turns back to the Alpha .
Staring the wolf directly in the eyes, the druid of the forest calls upon the spirits of the land to help uncover the truth about this Alpha and his apparently ill-begotten following. .
“Ви можете бути сильним, але найсильніший знаю, коли вистачить.”
“I have a bad feeling about… Nme'an, ni alpha mabaya?”
The druid is certain that the alpha is not referring to mating, especially since he considers Mot to be a prime candidate for “making more wolves”. Something is definitely unusual about this alpha wolf -the rest of the pack behave as normal wolves, but not this alpha. Given his disregard for his “brothers”, Beorae has good reason to believe that this pack leader is capable of understanding right from wrong, and perhaps a good deal more...
The paladin cuts down another wolf, as Themp’s bowstring snaps and lets fly an arrow through the chaos. The shot soars over the wolves and into the distance.
One of the wolves lunges for Mot, while the other stalks around the group, just out of Shark’s reach. The second wolf quickly leaps for Nme’an’s leg!
Ever vigilant, the Knight Apprentice kicks away the sudden attack. Canine teeth close on the highlander’s ankle, but the wolf fails to pull the berserker off his feet.
The alpha wolf barks wildly, his anger directed at Beorae.
“Досить?! У нас є ще мати нашу заливку!”
“Enough?! We have yet to have our fill!”
The two beside the alpha wolf crouch, eagerly waiting for their leader to order their attack.
Nme'an sees the surprisingly intelligent wolves reposition themselves around him. Unwilling to expose his blind spot to either of the animals, Nme'an instead pushes northward, attempting to avoid exposing himself while repositioning.
Now, flanking the wolf nipping at Mot, Nme'an takes a swing, hoping to keep the creature off his companion.
for
"Ni nini maana ni mabaya? Ni wanapiga kura!" Nme'an yells back to Beorae.
Full moon… The mere presence of a magical aura is all the druid needs to make an educated guess, and she cuts the spell short. The others can hear her mutter “Werewolf…” in disgust over the din of combat.
Knowing that time is running out on Speak with Animals, Beorae hopes that this next, final message gets through to the remaining wolves . With a sharp snap of her finger and a bellowing, “Ignis!”, the druid's palm blazes forth with open flame.
“На цьому закінчується зараз, ви фол істота,” she says in wolf, hoping that the conjured flames have the right effect on the Alpha's resolve.
“Горький ікло! Половина вуха! Послухай мене! Юе не вовк! Ваш блок на чолі з перевертнем. Перевертень! Він вб'є всіх вас без думки. Подивіться, як він ховається, уникаючи бою, як цуценя. Він не правда Альфа! Допоможіть нам знищити його, і ми будемо вам життя!”
As she finishes speaking, Beorae steps closer to the wolf who is now flanked by her and Shark.
Seeing an opening, Shark roars and takes a fresh lunge at the wolf who is now pinned between himself and the druid with open flame in her hands .
“Bitterfang! Halfear! Listen to me! Mooncaller is no wolf! Your pack is led by a lycanthrope. A werewolf! He will kill all of you without a thought. Look how he hides, avoiding combat like a pup. He is no true Alpha! Help us destroy him and we will spare your lives!”
Were-what now, did she say?! Oh great, that's even better than wolves...
Themp unconsciously steps further away from the wolves and, after a second of hesitation, fires at the wolf harassing the tiger.
Not hearing anything over the sound of blood rushing through his ears, the Casns warrior whirls, shaking a wolf loose from his leg. His vision begins to cloud over as his heart races, with a roar that sounds more of a beast than a man he whips his heavy blade through the air as if it weighed nothing.
Nme’an delivers a devastating cut to the wolf, and Mot ends it quickly with a mighty chop. Themp’s arrow sails wide, as Shark mauls the wolf in front of him.
One of the two beside Mooncaller turns a challenging look to the alpha wolf, but the pack leader barks viciously, meeting his challengers gaze. The wolf near Beorae yelps and flinches back. “Она владеет огонь! Беги!”
The alpha wolf’s hackles bristle for a moment, but then he barks, followed by a long, chilling howl.
“Challenge me and I will kill you!”
“She wields fire! Run!”
“Do not listen to the two-legger! She is not one of us. They have slain too many of our brothers! Fall back!”
Three wolves turn and bolt for the misty hills. The werewolf lingers for a moment, looking at the druid with bared teeth. “Я не забуду тебя, от огня руку.”
“I will not forget you, Firehand.”
The werewolf bounds back to catch up the pack, and the shapes of grey begin to vanish in the fog.
Shark snaps at the retreating wolf, but the battle is already won and the tiger lets the wounded wolf scamper off into the mist.
“Remember this, you monster!”, the druid shouts as she hurls a fireball in the wolves' general direction of retreat.
The flames burst against a tree and the trunk sparks and catches fire for few moments before the damp air snuffs the flames, leaving only black smoke lingering in the air.
In the sudden quiet that follows, surprise hits druid as the wolves' retreat sinks in, followed by a flood of relief that the fight is over.
“Come here, Shark.” Now that the danger is out of the way, Beorae immediately checks wounds on Shark and Mot, making sure none of them are life-threatening or otherwise worrisome.
As she dresses Mot's wounds, it dawns on Beorae that she'd been speaking the entire battle in Wolf or Tiger, and that the others probably have no idea how grievous their situation may have been. Pulling a loose lock of hair back behind her ear, the druid explains to the group, “The Alpha in that pack was a werewolf. I sensed a magical aura on him, and it explains their audacity.”
Satisfied that Shark and Mot are taken care of, Beorae takes another set of apples out of the sack and distributes them among the group before giving one to One Sock. “We should probably get back on the road. If we keep a good pace for the rest of the day, we can make camp about two hours out from Brenan's Crossing. I suppose we could push it and arrive after nightfall, but that will be hard on the horses.”
"Ah, so that is what you meant by 'is the Alpha evil,'" Nme'an chuckles. "For my part," he says more seriously, "I would not mind camping again, but with Mot injured, not to ignore your tiger Bi Sevenstone, I wonder if we can afford to be so exposed, while a threat remains around us. I would rather seek safety and shelter, and I believe our horses can tolerate a half day's strain given that they will have time to recover as our party is tended to."
"Mtu Mkubwa, Alitaka Moja,"Nme'an says, turning to Mot and Themp, "What is your vote? Stay here among the wolves or push on towards the safety of the garrison at Brenan's Crossing?
"Big Man, Wanted One,"
As the wolves scramble, Themp let's out a relief sigh.
After making sure the wolves are truly gone, Themp proceeds to recover his lost arrows and dropped sword.
"Well, Freckles, glad you out-barked them. The big guy over there was almost reduced to beef jerky and while I am a bit hungry, I don't think that'd do." And turning to the highlander. "Hey, Casns, you ok? Need me to fetch you some rags to patch your leg up?"
As the others debate the severity of Mot's injuries and the merits of continuing on vs. camping for the night, Nme'an closely inspects each of the four slain wolves, in case anything of use can be found.
Out of the corner of her eye, Beorae notices Nme'an attempting to skin one of the wolves with his longsword. “Oh, seriously? Here, let me show you how to do it. Hoja juu,” she says, pulling out her dagger.
"Mimi nilikuwa kuangalia matumbo yao kwa vito au sarafu, si kujaribu ngozi yao!" Nme'an protests in an amused tone. Clearly Beorea has more experience skinning an animal that he does, but she clearly misunderstood what he was trying to do. "Na hii ni kuja kutoka Druid ambao hawakuweza kupata kuni jana., Bi Sevenstone," he adds jokingly.
"I was checking their stomachs for gems or coins, not trying to skin them!"
"And this is coming from the Druid who couldn't find firewood yesterday, Ms. Sevenstone,"
Mot lifts his sword again as his fury-filled eyes search for another target. Poised to strike, it takes the barbaric man a moment to realize the fight is over. Letting the massive blade slip from his grasp, Mot bends over at the waist, hands on thighs, chest heaving like a bellows. After a moments reprieve his self-assured grin starts to creep back to his face. Looking like he's about to say something he turns quickly only to wince and gasp softly. Examining his leg he sees flesh and tendons torn ragged. Quietly, almost to himself, he says, "Och, ae wee bit woorse than Ah thooght et was."
He watches as Beora attempts to tend to the worst of it. As soon as she applies the poultices and bandages they immediately soak through with blood, but at the least they hold back the flood. "Mah thaanks Wood Healer."
Limping and wincing his way over to a fallen wolf he replies to his roguish companion. "Nah boyo, oonly theng will fex thes is soom rest an dreenk. An sense weh dinnae bring oour oown ale house. Ah voote with Numea-" The Highlander struggles with the elvish name. "With tha Pretty Pally. Let's maake tha croosing bah nahghtfall."
Going to one knee, with some care, Mot draws his own dagger and begins skinning the animal he personally killed. Once separated from its body he grins savagely before rising with his prize. Sniffing disdainfully at the fetid carcass he spits at it before looking for his horse. Seeing Drexel pawing at the ground a ways off, Mot moves to him and grabs the reins lightly. Holding the wolf skin up to the beasts nose he keeps a firm grip on the leather leads. "Whooa wee horsie. Ets dead naow. Nothin ta fear." He rubs the scent from the skin all along the horses nostrils before plopping the still warm trophy on his own head. The wolfs skull grinning like a little hat from its new perch. "Wolfsbaaen indeed." he says quietly with some satisfaction.
With effort he climbs back into the saddle and pats his horse on the neck before looking to the others.
It's a few moments before Beorae realizes that her mouth is hanging open, paralyzed in awe at the Highlander and his talent for… accessorizing. She snaps her jaw closed and turns to the rogue, “It sounds like we're going to try and press on to Brenan's Crossing. I see the logic both ways, but I think Mot and Shark could do with some uninterrupted rest. You okay with that?”
Taking one last look around, the druid prepares to depart once again.
"Well, something tells me the only uninterrupted rest we'll get is in a town, if that. I certainly do not care for another night out exposed like this. Also, it's about damn time I buy the big man an ale."
Were-creatures use a supernatural ability to polymorph from humanoid, to hybrid, and animal forms. Polymorphing falls under the Transmutation school of magic.
If Beorae could guess, the retreating wolf pack will be undergoing a change in leadership soon, based on Bitterfang’s reaction to the revelation of Mooncaller’s true nature.
The yellow fangs of the wolves made quite the impression on Themp’s young mind, and now, to see them still and harmless, is an odd feeling indeed. Perhaps the fangs could be fashioned into a necklace, either to sell, or serve as a prop the next time a tipsy dame requires regalement in the rogue’s heroic deeds. Themp is able to gather of the wolves’ sharpest, longest teeth.
Brenan’s Crossing is significantly smaller than Thaleniel, but its history runs deep. Each resident can recite tale of Brenan the Berserker in greater detail, as the story is the point of pride for the small town. Annually, on summer’s solstice, the commoners of Brenan’s Crossing put on a reenactment of their brave hero’s final moments, succeeded by a night of drinking and merriment. Even in the winter, one can expect a warm welcome to civil folk, though the guards may respond stiffly due to the dangers just beyond the kingdom’s borders. The bridge of Brenan’s Crossing is older than the town and castle itself, in fact, the builders of the stone walkway are unknown to historians and scholars, though speculations run amok.
The half-elves successfully cut away the remaining wolf pelts, and find the meat to be cookable, and certainly edible, but it looks and smells far less appetizing than the meat of herbivores. Much of the innards contain the digested remains of wild creatures, but Nme’an’s thorough search wins him half a hand, covered in bile. One of the three fingers is fitted with a simple silver band and a white oval gemstone with a blue pearlescent shimmer. However, this ring needs a good cleaning before any buyer would consider it, since it has spent an unknown amount of time in the belly of a wolf.
The four champions continue on the road, and after a handful of hours’ travel, their mounts begin to tire. Still, they have a ways to go yet.
The hand is probably the grossest thing the druid has seen in a while, and the terrible stench wafting off of it makes Shark stand back a few feet. As Nme'an slides the ring off a gnarled finger, the druid gets a look at the sliver band and gemstone. “Well, now that's interesting…”
Beorae then grabs a fresh handful of Bears Grapes leaves before saddling-up on One Sock.
________________________________________
After a full day's ride, Beorae has to coerce One Sock with an apple to get him to push on to Brenan's Crossing, but the snack makes him happy enough and the rest of the ride goes by relatively smoothly.
Rexel, tired from his days journey whinnies and bucks slightly as Nme'an attempts to push him onward. Gentle encouragement does nothing to make the horse budge.
"Mimi najua, Mimi nimechoka sana, lakini sisi lazima ya kusonga mbele," Nme'an whispers to the animal as he tries again, but this only results in Rexel turning in a tight circle as if to say 'resting here would be good.'
Frustrated, Nme'an jerks on Rexel's reins and digs his armored boots into the horse's side, which finally serves to get his message through. Rexel rides along for another hour with protest, but as the sun begins to set so does his enthusiasm for the ride.
Fortunately, with kind words, another harsh jerk of the rains, and an apple, Nme'an is able to persuade his mount to ride nonstop until Brenan's Crossing is within sight.
Quietly Mot urges Drexel toward their goal. A touch here, a soft word there, and the big beast bears his injured rider to rest and recuperation. The berserker looks a little pale and worse for the wear of the days encounters. The ride is so gentle though that Mot is able to doze lightly here and there on the mild road.
While the harmlessness of the fangs certainly help lighten Themp's mood over the encounter, the hand Nme'an... acquires reminds him exactly why he is so uneasy at he thought of the beasts.
And a werewolf nonetheless...
Guts squirming a bit, Themp takes a deep breath, pockets the fangs and mounts the horse after the band, color slowly coming back to his face along with his usual grin.
With a bit of patience, Themp is able to push the horse forward after the first sign of tiredness.
Yeah, girl, I'm tired too, but we'll be much better off in town.
With an apple and even more patience, Themp is able to convince Daisy to march on, as he finally sees the town's signs of activity on the horizon.
The sun begins to set as the four crest a hill, to see Brenan’s Crossing below. The town spreads along the Emestar River, quiet low-leveled buildings connected by a tangled network of dirt roads. Orange dots speckle the browns of walls, roofs, and roads as the dark deepens. The fog thinned with the passing hills, but at this hour, the cold still clings to bone and breath. By now, the sight and smell of the river are familiar to the travelers.
As they move downhill along the road, the castle’s high towers are made more and more evident. Soon, the four champions find themselves at the tall double gate. The stone walls around the town are much shorter than those of Thaleniels, and their masons, at least from first glance, seemed to be less disciplined during their construction. As they approach in the half-light, six guardsmen make themselves known atop the walls, with crossbows in their arms and spears slung over their backs. They silently study the four, and the tiger, and do not raise their weapons.
Standing at the gate, sounds of merriment raise and subside quickly, as crowds do when watching competition, and smells of cooking food waft and mix with those of the river. Each of the horses chuff tiredly in turn, and One Sock is not the only mount stamping or head-shaking with impatience.
One of the guards holds up a lantern and calls down, “Who goes there, and what brings you to Brenan’s Crossing?”
"I am Nme'an, a knight apprentice with the Order of the Dawnflower. My companions and I are on an urgent mission for Court Wizard Mortimer Dacius. We were attacked on the road this day by wolves and two of our number were severly injured. We seek shelter and healing," the half elf calls out, confident that his status will help address any fears the guards might have to the approach of the four companions.
Mot attempts to look as pitiable and frail as his hulking frame will allow. Holding his leg out from where he sits he points a meaty finger to the blood-soaked bandages while trying to make his lower lip tremble. The effect is somewhat stymied by the near ever-present grin trying to claim it's rightful place on his shaggy features.
“Wolves, eh? Not surprising…” the watchman gestures to someone behind the wall, and the sound of a few men raising heavy bars off the gate reach the ears of the four. The gate is pushed open momentarily.
“Welcome to Brenan’s Crossing, Sir Knight and company,” greets one of guards holding the gate open. He surveys the group and stops at Mot’s wounds. “We’ve a few holy men and women in town who can see to your injuries. Pass four houses and you’ll see a temple for Erastil on your left. The head priest there is very kind, he may allow you to stay the night in one of the rooms.” He points down a road to the left, alongside the wall. “There are stables near there too. Just follow that same road and you’ll see it.”
An unseen crowd cheers again. The sound comes from the road directly in front of the four, clearly the way to the center of town. The guard shrugs. “That’ll be Belarandir’s Brewpub. Biggest alehouse we have. There is an inn next door, but gods help you find any sleep with all that racket.”
The gate is closed behind the four as they enter, and the men move to reset two heavy wooden bars across the doors.
“You said the court wizard sent you?” asks the watchman with the lantern, “If it’s urgent official business, Commander Morgan is the man to talk to, and he is in the castle.”
From the gate, the castle looms from the other side of the town. Many torchlights from the walls and towers of the keep suggest a vigilant watch.
Beorae nods her thanks to to the guardsman as they ride through the gate. Once on the other side, the tall druid deftly dismounts, gathering One Sock's reigns and Shark's leash in one hand while quickly taking in her surroundings.
At the mention of the alehouse, the druid's green eyes flash toward the highlander, wondering if his condition is about to "suddenly and miraculously improve."
"I think we should get Mot and Shark to the healer. Then we can tie up the horses once that's settled. Nme'an, is the Commander here attached to your order?"
Remembering the tea recipe that's been nagging at her, Beorae turns to the nearest guard, "Is there a master druid in the Crossing, by chance? Or maybe a skilled apothecary?"
"I would very much like to speak to this Commander Morgan," Nme'an replies, still mulling over whether he knows the man or not, "but I think our first priority should be to tend to our injured."
Another cheer goes up from the distant ale house. Upon seeing Mot's head turn and smile widen at the sound, Nme'an reaches up and prepares to yank Drexel's reins from the big man, if necessary.
"Come on, big man. If you don't get yourself patched up, I won't buy you a pint." says Themp while tapping the highlander on the unbruised shoulder.
Also, I'd rather not meet a commander of the guard right now. Not after a day already filled with wolves...
Nme’an recalls meeting Commander Morgan once, in passing, as the commander was on his way to see King Thadeus about something. The new knight recalls a long ugly scar twisting over the face of an experienced middle aged man; the half-elf got the impression that despite his rank, Commander Morgan regularly sees melee combat. This impression was supported by what Nme’an heard of Morgan later, among his peers. While opinions varied on approval, Commander Morgan was known to include himself in the mounted patrols along the borders to intercept kobold warriors, and other dangers to the kingdom. Commander Morgan is a high ranking officer in the king’s army, and is not part of the Order of the Dawnflower.
As the guard answers her question, Beorae recalls a trapper passing through Deeproot, who claimed to be from Brenan’s Crossing. He told her that he had younger brother who had a real talent for mixing all manner of substances into tonics, salves, and concoctions. The boy knew of (or could figure out) seven uses for every plant, by the elder brother’s prideful claim. If she remembers correctly, this younger brother, Ronn Feddik, lives near the river.
“Head priest should be in, reading or praying or healing somebody,” the guard says to Nme’an’s remark.
“Aye, we’ve a handful of herbalists and apothecaries here at the Crossing,” the guard answers Beorae, "No druids here that I know of.”
The rest of the guards begin to turn back to their watch from the wall. The sun is halfway obscured by the western horizon. Now, much of the light comes from lanterns hanging from the corners of buildings, or a guardsman on patrol through the streets.
At the sound from the nearby Tavern Mots face does indeed light up. The big man starts to stand in his saddle but a start and a sharp intake of breath indicate that his body has other priorities. With a glum sigh he turns to look for the indicated healer, as if they'd be within easy sight. "Och, aye. Ah suppoose yah're right. Leets get tha blasted thing oover with."
"Ah yes, now I remember the name, Nme'an says to Beorae as he and Rexel lead the way towards the temple of Erastil, "Commander Morgan visited Thaleniel back when I was still in training. Not sure what for, though. Word is he still likes to mix it up in combat along side his men, though I did not personally speak to him. He was not in the Order, of that I am sure though."
Beorae listens as they make their way down road to the temple, eager to unload her pack and get Shark healed. “Interesting. I wonder if he's heard anything about the Prince.”
“I don't know if we'll have time, but there's someone I'd like to find while we're here if I can. He might be able to help me make some use out of those plants we found.”
"I think he must have," Nme'an says, "there were reports that the prince was seen both here and in Axton before..." Nem'an trails off. They have faced enough danger already... there is no need for them to fear more...'
Nme'an helps the big man off his horse then says to the others, "I will tend to the horses while the healer sees to the wounded."
The four guide their horses down the road, and soon, come upon the place of worship in question.
The Erastil temple resembles more a large wooden lodge than the temples seen in Thaleniel. An ornate longbow is carved into the threshold above the single door, with curved spikes protruding from the arc as though the bow was made from the horns of a stag. The door opens into a long dining hall, complete with a long and simply crafted banquet table, flanked by at least two dozen chairs, also of simple make. At the far end, a podium raises above the table and chairs. The walls are adorned with the horns of many great hoofed creatures -stags, moose, mountain rams, and so on. Wood carvings of a bearded trapper contending against various wild beasts can be seen in the corners and on shelves along the walls. The huntsman appears to be the same in each of the carvings. A large, stone hearth is obscured by the table and podium on the far end of the room, but the warm smell and crackle of a great woodfire is unmistakable, and inviting. A stone cobbled chimney divides the high log walls.
A small written sign is posted on the door in the nearest left corner: Kitchens. Donations for the Feast of the Faithful are welcome here. Another written sign is spotted on the opposite door, in the right corner: Infirmary. Visitors must see head priest before entering.
Presently, the gentle noise of a page turn in the dining hall draw the eyes of those who enter. An elderly man, whose cloak of fur and leather blended into the scenery moments ago, looks up from his book. Kind eyes remain on the group as he rises from his place shadowed by the light of the fire, and lays his open book on the corner of the long table. His long grey beard nearly reaches his belly.
“Welcome to Erastil’s temple. I am head priest here, you may call me Donovan.”
He pauses a moment, glancing at the garb of his guests, before meeting their eyes with a knowing look. “None of you are from here, nor do you intend to linger long, yet you need something of me. How might I help you, travelers?”
Nme'an gazes at the carving on the temple door for a moment and considers its meaning before heading farther down the dimly lit street, four tired horses in tow.
At least by this point Rexel, Drexel, One Sock, and Daisy are too worn out to be much trouble. They follow the Paladin step for step, almost as if sleepwalking. Nme'an makes arrangements for the four faithful steeds then makes his way back up the road towards the temple.
Erastil is an elder deity, his worship hearkening back to the time when mankind first set about harnessing the wilderness and mastering nature. Even as the accomplishments of civilization mount, Erastil continues to embrace and represent the simpler pleasures life has to offer. Depictions of Erastil are commonplace in the homes of his followers. Such images usually portray the deity as either an aged human with the bow and gear of a trapper, or as an elk-headed humanoid. These depictions often show Old Deadeye holding fast against various beasts and animals of the wilds. In times of need, Erastil has also been known to appear to lost hunters in the form of a stag. Farmers, hunters, and traders often worship Erastil. The Stag God, and Lord of the Hunt, are other names he is known by, and he holds family, tradition, and survival in high regard.
Mot gazes approvingly at the décor of the warm temple as he limps along on wounded leg. Seeing the elderly priest and hearing the words of greeting the towering warrior smiles and points to his bandaged appendage. "Weel mistar Donovan Graybeard, Ah seeem ta have stumbled an faallen oon ah wolf!" A meaty hand gestures around the temple grounds. "Wea tried to patch it oop as best wea could, but Ah've heard ya coold doo a sight beeter."
He scratches at the wolf pelt resting on his hairy head, as his big warm eyes regard the man before them. Sticking the mit of a hand towards Donovan he proclaims. "Mah naems Mot "Wolfsbaane" Casns, of the eastern-hills Casns."
As Mot introduces himself, Themp evaluates his surroundings from his spot right behind the highlander, making as many escape plans as he can muster. Just in case
When Mot wraps it up, Themp sets his gaze on the elder and with a slight flourish, introduce himself.
"Good evening, my friend. You can call me Themp, most people do. I am merely accompanying my big friend over here while he gets patched up, so I can pay him a treat I own him."
"Let me know if you will require any sort of assistance, be it fetching anything you might require or simply desire; or holding something up for you. I believe my friends can testify I have very deft hands that you may find of use."
