Lion Head Mesa Trod on my abbot, Father Habit

The woman did not reply verbally, but her head fell in a stoic nod. She turned and the Taggerung followed her without question, trotting casually beside the bright red shape. He hummed softly, pleased that he had found where Cluny’s brood had ventured.

With war on the horizon, the bard believed he would have opportunity for many good tales. Times of hardship were always rife with chance for such things. Heroes sprouted from the stones and the earth, ready to take charge for their beliefs. If the wolves of Ursus were anything like their master – like the Scourge – they would be a frightening group of attackers.

The Taggerung was so lost in his thought that he did not notice the red woman whirl around on him, snapping her teeth near his chin. The bard jumped backward, several feet to put space between himself and the violet-eyed wolf. His chest rose and fell quickly as he noted the adrenaline she’d sparked in his frame.

Careful, now, I wasn’t joking when I said I’m not much of a fighter, dear, he huffed softly, casting her a crooked grin.