Lion Head Mesa Trod on my abbot, Father Habit

Word of war had bubbled through the wolves of Ursus and their ruler – Cluny the Scourge. Tragedy had struck the peculiar bear man and his kin. The lady queen of the mountain had been killed, it seemed, by wolves from a pack who called themselves the Saints. The Taggerung had thought this to be a foolish thing to name oneself when they were trying to be ruthless, but it had not been his decision.

The bard had considered taking his leave from the wolf Cluny and seeking something less fearsome – a story from one of the other packs of wolves, one that would be pleasant to share with children. The wolves of Ursus had marched to a mesa in the south. The Taggerung had told Cluny that he would decide whether he would travel with them or would remain on the mountain.

The Taggerung approached the edge of the mesa and drank in the scents of wolf there. It seemed a decent crowd, which may give them a small advantage.

Humming cheerily, Tagg watched for signs of Ursus wolves. He figured that even if he didn’t bare his fangs against the enemy, he would have a good chance at telling a wild tale of war and hardship.