The company watches Matrim as the rugged ranger gazes into the branches of a nearby linden that has already lost half of its yellow leaves. No emotion crosses his face, but all who know him recognize the battle of needs that is going on behind their leader’s steady stare.
Finally, turning to scratch the head of the hawk perched on his shoulder Matrim speaks:
We can not leave a threat like this to ravage the villages of Parlone. The wights are a plague with terrifying consequences. We must do what we can.
The decision hangs for a moment, the party overwhelmingly in favour of remaining in the south. All that is left to see is whether all members of the Manticore accept it.
Lornaal, still reeling from drink, curses loudly in the guttural language of the goblins. He eyes each of you dangerously before stomping into the woods. By now you are all aware of the moods that sometimes overcome the big northman when he does not get his way. Each of you judge that he will storm and scowl for a few hours, but once the promise of battle begins to set in, he will forget his anger.
I expect that you will wish to be off quickly then.
Peter’s voice breaks the cloistered feeling that your huddle had created. The villagers of Tundrein stand around their mayor, listening intently to your plans.
We will gather what provisions we can for you. My only request is that you burn the bodies of those that you fall. They were once our friends and loved ones.