Sleepless in Spellgard

This in from Danurai:

Fáelán squinted up at the weak winter sun, then spat on the dry ruins of Spellgard.
“They passed by here not three days hence.”
He waggled his fingers in the air and muttered under his breath, like he was petting a dog. Big bloody dog if he was, his companion thought.

The two had been travelling together for a couple of weeks now, tracking the small group that the woman had described. They’d found the cave where her daughter had been held, empty now except for the rotting corpses of it’s previous foul denizens, and picked up the wagon trail to Spellgard and the ruins of the north wall where they now stood.

“We doin’ this or what?” Rumbled the big man. With a voice like gravel and skin like rock he was the physical embodiment of the land he was sworn to protect.
“Aye,” replied the Fáelán, “there’s unnatural doings down there. C’mon Lupa.”
The warden ducked as he followed the wild elf through the broken doorway, and shrugged to himself, why did he keep calling him ‘Lupa’?

The corpses here were much fresher, a few days old at most, and the trail of destruction was easy to follow. Fáelán grinned to himself, from the tracks he was sure they had a Drow with them, no-one else had mentioned a renegade. They’d waded through the underground stream and clambered through the tombs,the dank, dark tunnels reeked of death and decay. The wild elf quickly raised his hand to call a halt, faint strains of a familiar tune echoed through the darkness, amplified by the spirits for Fáelán alone, the screams and shouts of battle joined.

“Lupus, garbh!” the shaman whispered. With a sudden feral roar like a crack of thunder, a ghostly wolf leapt ahead of them. Spear held low Fáelán sprinted after his spirit guide.

“So that’s Lupus” the goliath mused as he unsheathed his full sword and rumbled after them.

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