Herbalists' Cache been training vipers to come for you

Figurative shattered shackles drag behind him, each step heavy as he fights the wind, cold and open wounds. At least the heavy snow has died enough that visibility is not an issue. The Wayfarer keeps moving; traveling because he can, no longer bound by teeth and law.

Borders mean little when he is not the one guarding them. It is why he does not shy in the face of pack wolves. There seems to be an endless supply of them, swarming out of the undergrowth like cockroaches ready to be crunched underneath his feet.

For now, he wanders, head low with his nostrils flaring—taking in the slightest hint of food. It is a different scent, however, that the beast ends up following. The Wayfarer strides after, nose twitching. He stalks, shadowing, until he spots the sliver of grey in the near distance.

He freezes, a shudder coursing through him. You…