Deepwood Weald Lovec netvorů

These lands stretched endlessly, as he had witnessed during his ascent of Silvertip Mountain. Such vast expanses brimmed not only with seething, teeming packs but also—above all—with formidable predators. Wolves were not the sole creatures to make the earth tremble beneath their prey’s feet, and Frenū had long since learned to strike fear into even the most fearsome of hunters. It was in his blood, woven into the fabric of his culture—it had even become a sport.

For days now, he and his quarry had been locked in a relentless game of cat and mouse. The small yet powerfully built man tracked with unwavering focus, his keen senses ever attuned—the scent carried on the wind, the subtlest rustle in the undergrowth, the faintest clue left in the wilderness. His prey had left many traces in its wake, soon tangled with the countless tracks of prowling wolves, rendering the pursuit all the more intricate. But Frenū welcomed the challenge. Hidden in the brush, he moved with remarkable stealth, his presence scarcely more than a whisper against the land. For one of his stature, it was a wonder—to be so deft, so poised, so utterly silent…