Some ways outside of town, a burly griffin dropped from the skies ahead of them and the silver war forged strode forewards to preen it's neck-ruff.  "This is my mount," he called back to the group, "And I, if you missed it, am Wayland Smith.  My concubine is Coppermane."<br/><br/>Besides a bulky belt and leather pants, Wayland Smith didn't wear much.  Shirtless, he had the body of a master sculptor's rendition of a god.<br/><br/>Given that his body was as much silvery as artificial flesh, one could guess that a sculpture of a god was exactly what he was, but a very animate and vibrant one with amber gemstones for eyes and golden bracers built into his forewarms to match the line of intricate golden runes ringing his powerful shoulders, manly chest, and broad back.<br/><br/>"Don't worry about tents, by the way.  If you'll accept my hospitality come nights, I have a spell to create a hidden lodge, and ask only an hour alone with Coppermane in the mornings while someone else prepares breakfast for those who eat."