Dragoncrest Cliffs the world's grave. not ours.

The red-tailed seafarer was not far from Rosencrantz when the bellow of Ursus and the shrill cry of Chacal pierced the winter air. A flash of white streaked through the pines as Njord spied his two-faced sensei reeling towards the chaos unabated. At first, the buccaneer hesitated  — untrained in immediate action. He thought of the kids. Solaire. Chacal. Should he find them instead of being on the front lines? Njord had barely begun mentoring under Sapphqiue’s pale knight, and he had never seen an Ursus firsthand. Only tales of its might and prowess warned those of Meares Island who might encounter the beast.

Then came the grieving war-cry of Rosalyn. It shook Njord to the bones. Something was terribly wrong. He could feel the familiar trickle of adrenaline through his veins as his paws began to carry him across the territory, hot on Rosencrantz’s trail like a steam engine. Then, the tree-line broke and he saw them.

Time became meaningless as the bear’s massive form lumbered towards the wolves. Rosalyn, Rosencrantz, and Erzulie engaged their foe. Chacal was shepherded away. And there, among the stones, was the broken body of one of  Sapphique’s own: Raleska.

Njord’s blood ran cold, and then suddenly very, very hot. He surged forth, joining the combined assault as the pack’s strength grew with its numbers. His lips curled, fangs gnashing as he sought purchase on the monster’s thick hide.