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<br/>​</div>Moonbeams penetrated the sea of oaks and spruces, illuminating the narrow path through the forest. In the carriage at the rear of the caravan, brooding beneath dark brown curls, the skinwalker Medaurus  sipped at a small of cup of cradle wyrt tea and cringed.<i> This tastes like horse piss</i>, Medaurus thought to himself, but forced it down all the same. It had been nearly two days since he'd slept, and his eyelids had grown heavy with fatigue. He was well aware of the risks he was taking by traveling through the night. He could sense the blood lust of the wolves that stalked the caravan as if it were his own. Occasionally, he'd slip into the mind of the alpha, a majestic, full bodied, black furred beast with beady red eyes, and snap at the other wolves of the pack, sending them scurrying into the trees. But hunger always compelled them to return and stalk their prey the moment Medaurus returned to his mortal skin. If he intended on protecting the caravan he'd need to stay alert. Piss flavored as it may have been, the acrid tea would help him do so.<br/><br/>The Thornwood harbored other dangers as well. Bandits, disciples of the Pale Mother: the forest was rife with nocturnal foes. Medaurus would have preferred to set up camp and set out the following dawn, but time was a luxury they couldn't afford. The Vralthaar was growing dangerously unstable. Two nights prior, the enormous gem had driven Luca, the brawny sell sword, mad, flooding his mind with macabre visions, and commanding him to slaughter the young Sonia. He'd fed upon her flesh like a ravenous beast, his gorging interrupted only by intermittent, unintelligible chanting in some unknown tongue. Onora, the skilled mercenary he’d hired in port Rosu, had been forced to drive her blade through the madman that same night. Sonia, the blonde, jovial girl of only thirteen they'd found stranded along the road, did nothing to deserve such a horrific end. It was a gruesome and disturbing episode unlike anything Medaurus  had ever witnessed. After months of pouring over ancient texts and communing with eldritch spirits, he'd determined that the artifact must be taken to the Cairn Stones of Ravincal on the eve of the lunar eclipse. There he would perform an ancient ritual, harnessing the power of the sun and moon, and banishing it from the primal plane to the distant void which spawned it. After what seemed like an eternity of tedious preparation, the caravan was now less than ten miles from their destination, and Medaurus  would not abide the stone's murderous appetite for a moment longer than he needed to. They would press on through the night, no matter the cost.<br/><br/>A warm breeze blew through the air, carrying with it the smell of hot iron and burnt human flesh. Medaurus  grew dismayed. He could hear the panicked neighing of the horses up ahead, and the shouting of the sell swords who strove in vain to pacify them. The horses too could sense something foul on the air. Medaurus  reached for his dagger and a small wicker basket which buzzed at his touch. As he kicked open the door to his carriage, Bogdan, the stout and balding stable master from Leonte, gazed up at him with troubled eyes.<br/><br/>"The horses...I know not what plagues them!" Bogdan said.<br/><br/>"Can you not smell that, Bogdan?"<br/><br/>Bogdan appeared bewildered. He searched through a rucksack for an apple or handful of oats to subdue the crazed animals. Medaurus  paced toward the front of the caravan, covering his knee high boots in moss and wet soil. As he caressed the neck of the rearmost stead, an arrow sped past him, carving a thin cut into his left shoulder and burying itself deep in the horse's flesh. The beast wailed in agony. Blood spewed from the freshly formed wound like a cracked wine barrel. Medaurus 's attention was drawn south by screams from the rear of the caravan. Beside the empty carriage, Bogdan gripped his hemorrhaging neck, his screams fading to jumbled gurgles as he bled out and collapsed upon the ground. Standing overhead Bogdan's corpse, a woman, clad in black, hooded garments and an ornate, pearl colored mask twisted a bloodied knife between her fingers. From the shadows of the woods, two figures, similarly clad, emerged with swords and spears in hand.<br/><br/>The adrenaline which raced through Medaurus 's veins propelled him forward toward an abandoned carriage. Sliding beneath the turned over pile of wood and iron would afford him some meager cover for the time being. The pack of wolves that had been stalking them for days still lurked nearby. For the first time since they'd departed from Leonte, Medaurus  was grateful to the wolves for their perseverance. He pulled himself from his mortal vessel, his eyes turning pale green as milk ferns. Synesthesia enveloped him as he once more possessed the leader of the pack, donning his skin like a cloak. The sounds, sights, and above all scents of the forest began to solidify and take form. He could now feel the wolf's hunger directly: a pit in the creature's belly that radiated throughout his entire body. You shall feed soon enough, beast, Medaurus  whispered silently to the creature.<br/><br/>Medaurus  prowled closer to the path, the pack not far behind him. The masked woman approached his kneeling, mortal body, her blade outstretched. Rage ignited in Medaurus 's veins. He lunged toward the woman's neck, his fanged maw wide open, and tore at her jugular. The sound which followed was enough to turn the stomach of the most seasoned warrior: a twisting, snapping, blood-curdling crunch which left his snout covered in human entrails. The pack soon followed, ravaging the woman’s flesh from head to toe. With the taste of fresh blood on his palette, he searched feverishly for the remaining assailants.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center"><div class="bbMediaWrapper">
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