“I didn’t ask for a f***ing fireside tale, skinner. I am a busy man, with many busy and important...” he made a circular motion with both hands around his head, “things to concern myself with. A simple ‘yes’ would suffice. Now, how far is this cave?”

Tusk’s answer was short and to the point, and despite his best efforts, his voice trembled. “A half day’s ride.”

Bralloc grinned and looked around the table at his comrades. “Our skinner here is a quick learner, eh? “ He turned his attention back to his plate, attacking the last of his bread and then punctuating each word by noisily sucking the grease off of each finger.

“Send a runner down to Dithog and tell the Watch Captain – Loeth is his name – that I, Bralloc, have changed our agreement. Besides handling his cannibal problem, I will also be scrubbing some…” he turned his eyes towards the tired rafters overhead as he sought for an appropriately witty phrase, “misspent godseed off the side of his mountains.“ He finished and flashed a smug grin at his men, then drained his wooden cup of mead, slammed it onto the table and stood. He scratched vigorously at the back of his neck with both hands and the smile faded as he turned once more to face Tusk. His voice was flat and cold, but there was something else there as well – a manic excitement barely contained.

“See to it that our horses are made ready. We ride within the hour.”

Outside, Ruine's two suns had risen and now glowed indistinctly through a white haze – the first harbinger of a bruised, sullen front creeping over the mountain peaks to their east. One of Bralloc’s men pointed out the approaching storm to him, as if the idiot thought he hadn’t noticed it himself. But Bralloc was unconcerned. He knew they could make the hunter's cave well before the storm hit; with any luck, they could ride it out in comfort with their quarry already in hand to amuse them and help pass the time.

'There is a storm coming, oh yes,' he thought and spurred his dappled grey charger ahead.

'Me.'

-from 'Feral' by T.B. Schmid