Haunted Wood A sprinkle of glamour, a dollop of charm, trading,

He had taken much longer to follow the devout. Ostracized yet bound by kin, Glaedwine had found himself well removed from the thick of the fire, but close enough to hear the first screams. Far enough, to find himself impossibly barred from entering the emberous forest, yet near enough to stand on the edge of the smouldering woods and watch the blessed flee, all looking like barbarians in the lashing reds of hellfire's light. Glaedwine did not fear death. Indeed, few who shared his countenance ever did. But he held his life in high respect, despite if others did, and he had lingered far enough away until the flames had died down enough, that the woods were at least passable to haunt.

And now he was here, in an unfamiliar world from the one he had ever known. He had not found his mother's body; he refused to believe any of the charred corpses were hers. He could only assume she had escaped.

Yet he had found the tines she had used to protect him as a child, a sign she had conjured all by herself. A wreath of protection he had slept within until he had grown too large to fit them, and strong enough to fend for himself. For who would harm an outcast, even him, if so wrapped in the protection of the High Elk himself?

The antlers carved a heavy line in the muddy ground, catching on roots and debris beneath, but still he dragged them along. He had no aim, but to find his kin, and to call them again from the wrath that would only keep chasing them down. The High Elk had passed his judgment, yes, but Glaedwine knew that even the flames would not be enough to change many of their hearts from stone to flesh.