Northstar Vale The Ruiner

Brief as his stay had been, the Rusalki had been kind hosts. He ate from their caches. Slept in their caves. Yet, that time was over; his mealticket, spent. Nails had departed as quietly as he came, but this time with a full stomach. At the time, satisfaction tugged at the young Eyjolfur's lips -- but it did not take long for his smug grin to fade. He hungered again. It was a gnawing, gnashing ache that Nails could not shake. Forced to reflect on the matter, Nails realized he may have made a mistake. Though, he would never truly admit fault of his own.

Nails did as a coyote would. He scavanged the free territories and picked apart corpses like a lesser being. One could not hold on to his pride when survival was an uncertainty. It was easy in the winter, but as the seasons changed, Nails found he could no longer take advantage of the dead. He thought of his lost siblings. Had they stayed together? Did they thrive as always. Such was the Schugkill way, thrive at all costs. Certainly, Nails was not thriving.

His winding path led him through the mountains. The peaks split like a gaping maw, opening into a pleasent, lake dappled valley. Nails drew close to the water and looked down. He saw the sunken lines of his face reflected back. How the skin settled so loose over the bones of his ribs.