A caravan makes its way through a thick woodland forest headed to the northern gate of Boernallye. The wheels churn over the thick muddied ground, splashing the chest of a nearby Mineborn and as he walks by its side. It was something he was used to at this point. The past month, the area seemed to be caught in this perpetual downpour.
“Huntsman, make yourself useful” calls the caravan master, gesturing to his Mineborn escort to look ahead toward a particularly dark cave in the distant bend. The Huntsman readies his bow and makes his way to the cave as the caravan comes to a stop.
“10 minute break,” howls the master as the wheels slow to a stop.
With the caravan now out of sight, the Huntsman approaches the mouth of the cave. He removes something from a well-worn satchel. A fetid piece of meat. He places it near the entrance of the cave and waits silently in the brush nearby.
Suddenly he sees two golden eyes approach from the cave. A basilisk long, scaled, and fanged, slithers out, investigating the bait. Before it has a chance to eat, an arrow finds itself embedded in the skull of the serpent. Suddenly, a low growl is heard through the rain from behind the Huntsman. He knocks another arrow and whips around, blind firing and avoiding the gaze of the ambusher. The arrow finds its mark, and a basilisk matriarch reveals herself, hissing as it chomps at the Huntsman.
Ducking and weaving through the treeline, the huntsman fires again, another shot, another hit. Tired of this short statured pest, the matriarch strikes, ripping through the trees. With a roll, the Huntsman dives behind a tree and lets out a whistle. Suddenly, a great red slagwolf answers, lunging and wrapping its vice-like jaws around the throat of the great snake. With a twist, the slagwolf tears through the matriarch’s throat revealing a soft spot, one that only a moment later was penetrated and ripped through with a volley of arrows.
A few minutes pass and the caravan makes its way around the bend, unveiling the enormity of the denmother as it lays alongside the road. On her head, the Huntsman sits, scratching the chest of his red furred companion. The caravan pulls up alongside them.
“Well done,” calls the caravan master. “That’ll be a bonus for you once we get to Boernallye, Huntsman.”
The slagwolf growls.
“Ehh, w-what I meant to say was: that’ll be a bonus for you and Fenix there when we get back to Beornallye, Huntsman.”
The caravan master can’t be sure, but he swears that Fenix smiles at his response.