Luneshale Pass Black moon

His owl speaks the wolven language and he wondered who has taught it to her, if she commonly keeps to the company of wolves to pedal visions for the price of a meal or some other amusement.

“You make for pretty company,” he grinned. If she knew he had set aside his shield, she may not have pecked so hard.

“To my people you are an omen of death,” his eyes glittered. “You keep close. Do you wish the end upon me, owl?” He questioned, passing a tongue over his lips, eyes serious but voice tinted with intrigue.