Hideaway Strath Friends are like Potato's leave then in the cupboard and they grow...

Hemlocke could smell the cultist. The scents of dirt, old blood and otherwise an unwashed dog lingering wherever the large trailed. The shadow thought perhaps if grooming wasnt an issue for her, Vein and Nyra could make quite the match, giving how so they matched. Maybe all eyes would finally drift off Kynareth.

The shadow had never been one to pull such eyes away. His presence here remained a shadow within the darkness, providing where he could to his pack by any means but like a support to a wall rarely thought of. He was fine with this, too.

The scent of blood came with the sound of the creek and Hemlocke crept near through the brush. Being a man accustom to being delicately quiet, he would rustle the bushes just the slightest to give himself away, as to not startle the man who went for a drink.