Morvran Xanthus Caul's page

"A grave omen indeed, lass." Morvran kneels by the body, observing the tracks and marks leading up to it, before with a grunt he hauls the form upon his shoulders and heads back to the church doorway.

"Back inside, this is not for you to see."

Morvran picks up his mace and cigar, brushing away Viktor's hands. "It's nothing. I encountered two of the curs on my way here this evening. One fell to my mace, the other retreated. It seems it was just regrouping." He looks down at the crushed cigar, and dejected tosses it out into the snow. Looking out at the property edge, "Their last meal, perhaps?"

The templar walks out, checking the tracks of the wolves as he surveys the church.

Survival 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (2) + 8 = 10

"No beastly prayers for supper shall be answered this evening!"

Raising his mace over his head, Morvran swings the instrument back towards the tattered muzzle of the wolf he has already bled.

Mace 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (10) + 5 = 15
Damage 1d8 + 3 ⇒ (4) + 3 = 7

Fear Save 1d20 + 3 + 3 ⇒ (18) + 3 + 3 = 24

"Come then, cur, and taste of her justice."

Morvran rushes to the packleader, swinging his sterling mace down towards the wolf's skull.

Masterwork Silver Mace Attack 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (16) + 5 = 21
Damage 1d8 + 3 ⇒ (6) + 3 = 9

Perception 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (15) + 9 = 24

Morvran tenses for a moment, but then relaxes, continuing conversation with Viktor about missives and news from Home Faith.

Morvran stands, one hand resting on the mace. His cigar waggles as he talks but never falls from his lips. "Hello girlie. Keeping the old man in line?" As he steps forward, the ember light reveals more of his face. Cigar clenched between perfect teeth, he could be handsome, until attention is drawn to the right side of his face. Marred by long lines of scars, the wounds balk any thoughts of him being charismatic.

Turning his intent back towards Viktor. "I was coming from Home Faith en route to our brothers in Mordent when I decided to take a side trek down here. By the moon, looks like I got here just in time." The soldier winks at the priest.

Taking a heavy drag from his cigar, the man speaks in a low gruff voice that reverberates through the domed vestry. "It has been a long time, Old Man." His words cut through the night in heavily accented Balok.

Morvran, checking in.