Ankyra Sound Where's that man who'd throw blankets over my barbed wire?

Stag followed dutifully, if a bit slow. He was overwhelmed by the enormity of the trees. They were larger than anything he had ever seen, and when he and Wylla walked between them he felt as if he were transported to some giant's fairy-tale realm. Perhaps these trees were the self-same trees that inspired tales of legend, like Yggdrasil -- all he knew was that their monolith size dwarfed even the tallest firs of his homeland.

He was mute as he followed after Wylla, taking it all in. She spoke of the pack she was born in, called Saltwinter. It seemed befitting in Stag's mind that so miserable a place would have so stringent a name. That Wylla was raised elsewhere and that a witch had lived here was all taken as gospel truth. Stag had no reason to think otherwise.

This is where I met Mahler. Stag peered out at the choppy waves, something sour settling in his stomach. Much like Wylla, he did some mental squashing -- for different reasons.

A chill went down his spine as he saw Wylla's features change to one of stilled alarm. Following her gaze, Stag spotted the figure that had alerted her. He had never met Rosalyn, and so, had no reason to recognize her -- but Wylla's stark change in posture had him on high alert.

Learning she was one of the cliffwolves (was she the one that had taken Wylla's eye?!), Stag's hackles began to raise. He wouldn't attack first by any means, but one wrong step on the stranger's behalf and Stag would be happy to donate to the latticework of scars that lined her pelt.