The Grove
The sun had not long risen over the distant hills, though the day for the druids of the Grove had already been underway for some while. Maintaining the wards around the area was nearly full time labour, going out to the edge of the territories and applying the spiralling pictograms in the great tree's sap upon the bark of certain trunks. The magic, like most of that that came from the places of natural power, was a subtle one. It tended to disorient, misdirect, sent those with hostile intent round in a big circle to end up where they began. It wouldn't perhaps stand up to a concerted effort to reach their sanctuary, but it had, up until then, prevented any scouts from the military finding the Grove.
Verdis dipped one slender finger into the clay pot and drew the final symbol onto the side of a twisted yew beside the main path. As he made the last stroke, the glyph seemed to give off a brief, pale blue glow, before it disappeared from sight. There, sealed for another day.
It was a short walk back, and as he crossed over the brow of the hill, the smell of woodsmoke was enough to tell him that some fo the newer inhabitants of The Grove were already busy.
The trees thinned to some degree, allowing in the shallow valley for the tents, huts and buildings to spring up. A small clear area was host to a large camp fire, where a few people were endeavouring to set up for cooking breakfast. He briefly considered going to greet them, but eventually decided against it. Not all of the newer folks were as well sited to early rising as the druids were, and some were, perhaps, not in the best humour at that time of day.
Instead the young man made his way down the hill with the intention of crossing through camp and dealing with some rather more important matters.
----
The Royal City
The thunder of heavy unshod hooves rattled over the flattened cobbles of the main roadway in the grey light of the morning. Windows of shops and houses shuddered and wooden signs swung erratically as horses charged through the street at full speed in a close and chaotic group. The heavyset horses snorted and huffed, peering through greasy manes as they and their riders thundered through the castle's gates, near skidding to a bouncing walk just outside the main doors.
Huge men, clad in furs and tarnished armor dropped down from their mounts. They were tall and jagged and unkempt looking, red and blue paint in swirls and lines across their faces and arms.
A well informed observer might have concluded that the pelts and skins they wore were not, in fact, those of mere animals either. A satyr hide on one, the grizzled grey of a werewolf, the glimmer of dragonscale.
If nothing before it had made it clear, it was undeniable there. These were the hunters.
The figure that stepped out ahead of the group stood out. Not out of size, for there were larger men within the crowd. The others still gave them a wide berth however, staying a few steps behind.
The figure was cloaked in an old bearskin, shedding and ragged at the edges, and some sleeveless doeskin arming jacket that had clearly seen better days. The bracers and greaves did not match at all. Everything was ornamented by numerous bits of bones and teeth, and the whole thing was crowned with the skull of a juvenile dragon, horns still intact, placed over the hunter's head and leaving the face obscured from view. Little was visible in the vacant eyesockets as they walked the hallways, past guards and servants.
The serving staff of the castle were not exactly overjoyed at the return of the hunters. As far as most were concerned, these folk were more beast than men. They drank all the wine from the cellars, ate huge amounts of food with no regard to manners, broke things in their fights, and had no kind of respect for rank. Still, The King had made it clear that they were to have what they asked for whilst they were his guests within the Keep, and as such the staff were beholden to whatever whims these savages had.
Soon, the leader in the skull helm strode through the high vaulted doors to the throne room.
The large chamber was dimly lit, with only a few torches, little of the man himself left visible.
The head hunter made it to the steps before dropping to a bow on one knee.
"Your majesty."
A voice issues from the throne up somewhere in the gloom.
"Welcome back, hunter. Do you bring good news? Stand, and tell me."
As she rose to her feet, the dark rider reached up and lifted the helmet from their head, and out tumbled a mane of bright ginger hair. A woman, in her late twenties of early thirties, pale skin marked with red paint, spoke to address her new king.
"The griffin is dead my lord. Some of the men have stayed behind to skin it and take the bones for the apothecars. Two have been injured, one badly, misjudged that the thing had died when we crippled its wings but it was merely stunned, and it-"
"You could not bring it alive?"
The woman shook her head a little wrong-footed.
"No sir. The beasts like that are very difficult to take that way. They're strong, dangerous and unpredictable."
"I've been led to believe that you were the best hunters of all." uttered the voice of the King.
"You disappoint me, Bear. You will go out again and return with a living beast that we can use. Cedians have no use for your hides and bones."
The woman started to grit her teeth within her mouth, but lowered to give a bow once again.
"As you wish, your majesty."
Only a brief stop it appeared.
The hunt has returned, and soon, it would set out once more.
