Of the Savage Hunters
Sixteenth Day of the Twelfth Month 292 AC
With scarce a though you call upon the fire in your blood clenching your teeth against the moment's exquisite pain. Flesh flows like water, bones break and reform stronger by far, still under the glamor's shroud, then you let the magic break one wing curved slightly behind the ranger. "Or perhaps they seek allies better versed in sorcery..."
At this point confronted with a your scaled bulk half again as as high as a tall man most would at least hesitate and draw back. Five bowstrings snap: two arrows snap entirely against your scales while another pair manage to rip through you exposed wing casting a line of hot blood onto the stony ground. Alas you had not counted for the boldness... not to say
rank folly of the Free Folk.
You take 9 damage
Things would likely have gone far worse from there on for the 'crab men' were it not for the fact that the last arrow, let loose with unsteady hands, passed close enough to the scarred wildling chief's head that it is not your blood
alone that is spilled. The man turns from you with surprising swiftness and proceeds to shout a stream of invective at his followers.
You raise a clawed hand to forestall Dany and Ser Richard. If nothing else the man's has a masterful grasp on profanity.
"...ye motherless son of a poxied goat and the lice that rode it!" he finishes, finally taking a deep breath.
"Those are the only two arrows you get to use without me counting you...
inhospitable," you growl at the wildlings still in front of you, the ones either too bold or two frozen in fear to beat a hasty retreat.
"Well...
fuck ain't ye big," Brel answers, doing a half-way decent job to hide his fear. "Where'd the Crows find ye?"
"I am not one to answer questions from those who shoot me," you answer coldly just as Dany still unseen heals you with a touch
You heal 9 damage
"Elle, Torin, apologize for being
proper fucking shots!" The old chief shouts.
For that you receive a pair of only slightly trembling apologies.
All the while Harwood had been watching the strange scene with a sort of incredulous amusement until at last he speak: "We're hunting bears. Point us at 'em and we'll be on our way."
***
At last the story comes out, or at least as much as Brel's lot know it. Three years ago almost to the day during the summer snows a pair of hunters were weeks late coming back, long enough that they were counted dead by their fellows until they at least returned wild-eyed and dirty 'as though they had been rolling in the mud like hogs.' They came with meat so the tribe welcomed them... but their strangeness did not end there. They begun speaking of a Great Bear they found in the hills who gave the gift of skins...
"Thought they were wargs we did when food started going missing, but no beasts hung 'round them," Brell explain sleanign on his spear and looking into the distance. "Then the old folk started going... then Olvar with the limp leg. That's when Elle found the bear-skin in her man's house, and the
bones."
From the tone it was clear enough that he did not mean the bones of beasts.
"Should have slit their throats in their sleep!" Dany hisses from your shoulder, whatever animosity she may have held for these folk directed at their murderous kin.
"Tried to," the dark-haired 'spear-wife' who had shot you said. "He healed right up soon as the knife went out of him. Thought I was dead then and there, but he said he would not kill the strong. They would be needed come the
cold night."
"There were three bear-men, not two," Harwood interrupted.
"It's catchin' somehow," Brel agrees grimly. "When they left the camp..."
"When we drove them out!" one of the other men shouts.
"When they
left, 'cause we sure as shit couldn't drive 'em anywhere," the chief pressed on. "There were five of 'em and they probably took up with others since. Food's scarce out there in the hills. Can hardly be picky about who you take up with if they can find it."
After a moment's pause you hand the man your wayfinder and bid him to think on these... exiles. Two were moving the third was not, you had your quarry.
"Burn the skins dragon-man and you'll have our thanks for it," Elle said drawing a few agreements.
Do you take Harwood along for the final leg of the journey to the bear-men's den?
[] Yes, let him witness the end of it
[] No, you no longer need a guide
OOC: Wildling diplomacy in a nut-shell. Not the most reasonable people, but not entirely insane either. Mind turning into a half-human monster may not have been the best move to start talking with this bunch.