Bald Mountain Holt is part of the Kshau Protectorate

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Bonded to:

Age: 22 born in late winter Sex: Male
Soul Name: jeadja Known By: relatives and wolves, found while fishing recently
Mate Status/Sex Preference: Lovemated to Splinter at his old tribe land, but distant from her now; straight
Children: none
Parents/Relatives: mother Forge (captured by Trolls while sneaking peeks at their forges), father Hazel (alive)
Height: 3'11" Build: squat, muscular, not fat
Hair Color, Length, Style: auburn red, frizzy, long to thighs and kept back with a visor-like headpiece
Eye Color, Size, Shape: hazel brown, smallish, intense
Skin Tone: fair, scarred
Voice Quality: moody, pretty sexy sounding
Clothing -- Summer: canary shaded cloak over cream long tunic, robin's egg blue leggings of woven cloth, visor, no shoes
Clothing -- Winter: same, with tall fur boots
Jewlery Worn, Made: makes more than he wears
Tatoos/Markings/Scars: scars on right hip and right shoulder from longtooth attack
Pets/Animals Kept: none
Notable Posessions: he can grow almost any plant, so he compulsively takes seeds from everything and keeps them in a pouch
Holt Function: plant shaper, home creator and food supplier
Magic? How Powerful? Sending (4/10), Magic Feeling (2/10), Plant Shaping (9/10)
Climate/Locations Preferred: enjoys being near rivers and open glens, with trees to dangle nets from! Prefers spring and summer.
General Likes: The joy of seeing someone accepting a gift, making things (is pretty compulsive), the warmth of friendship
General Dislikes: war drums from human camps, smoke in his eyes (he eats raw meat only), haughty high-ones (that bitch Yasheel is just too high for her own good thinking his blood's no good!), Winter when everything is 'dead'
Fears/Worries: He knows he should be realistic about finding his mother, but he wants her to be alive. Even if it puts him in danger, he will find out what happened to her.
Special Strange Info: Trying to find out what happened to Forge is exactly why he's here at Bald Mountain. See story below!
Stats: Strength - Very High; Dexterity - Extremely High; Agility - High; Health - High; Intelligence - Medium; Appearance - Average; Charisma -Below Average; Magic Power - Low
Skills:Attack/Exotic Weapon (Net (hunting)): Extremely High
Manipulation/Jewlery: High
Appraisal (of objects): Below Average
Elfin Lore/Gossip: Low
Hunting: Very High using Short Sword
Hunting: Above Average using Javelin (thrown)
Basic Personality: easygoing and easy to trust, but will hold a grudge if someone else won't let go. Proud of his creations, and eager to impress - he's really pissed about Yasheel: she's a plant shaper like him! How could she be so cold!
How they feel about
: long lasting mistrust and fear, but easily overridden by any single Human's personality
Elves -- herders: well, if I can shape us food out of season, this is just like hunting food that wouldn't be there!
Elves -- magic users: very proud to be a plant-shaper, too bad there were already plenty at the Holt
Elves -- bond-riders: what in the world are those big things? dragons? well... wolves are mortal after all...
Trolls, etc: deep resentment, they killed (presumably) mother!
Bond Animal Info if any: two wolves - Wine, Size: huge, practically too big to ride, Gender: female, Fur Colors: tan, red and cream; Eye Color: deep blue; Trait: usually stalking too-big prey; AND Cane, Size: smallish; Gender: male; Fur Colors: grey and cream; Eye Color: pale blue; Trait: a member of the local pack (now both deceased, but had left several litters of cubs and Wine had one with a Welf...)


It hurt the tribe so much, to lose Forge. Weeds' mother was a strong backed, sturdy elf with talent for making weapons. Good ones: troll forged things which they had stolen years before in a battle, she emulated with some success. But she wanted more, she wanted to know their secrets. She wanted very much to live up to her name.

Weeds was only in his fourth hand of hands, barely 17 turns old, when Forge vanished. She'd gone out to where the old Troll caverns let out, and when the tribe went to investigate, it was clear that there had been a scuffle with Trolls. Their footprints, her blood...

Most of the tribe mourned her in a howl later that day - but Weeds, and in fact his father Hazel, did not. Hazel privately felt that if his lifemate was gone, he'd know it in his soul, they were Recognized after all, and that connection was still present.

Weeds didn't have that connection, but none the less, he wanted to help. For two turns of the seasons he sniffed around the troll caverns, never entering farther than the weak light at the entrance could provide. He wasn't scared of the dark - he didn't know a thing about what they really looked like. He'd seen Trolls come out to trade, but those trades had all but stopped when Forge was captured.

The chief didn't want to waste time chasing after a single elf whose wares, he claimed, could be reproduced; nor on a chase which might lead to war with the Trolls or worse - capture by them, of the tribe. That couldn't be allowed.

But he did allow Weeds to leave, in that search. Though Weeds had exhibited his plant-shaping powers early on, they also led to his namesake: he was well known to just sit down and all the plants around him sprouted unbidden. This caused issues with itch-weed and strangleweed patches... His father however was a well-seasoned shaper, in complete control over his abilities, and was valuable enough that he wasn't going to be allowed to search with his son.

Well, so be it. Weeds set out with his wolf friends - two of the pack would not be missed either, Wine and Cane were an annoying duo at best and usually wound up running for their lives when Wine would spring upon a big boar or even a brown-bear without backup. Weeds was safe enough with the big wolf and the smaller male to keep him company and keep him aware of any dangers. Plus, they could easily hunt for him while he made progress through the caverns below.

He found another entrance, this one more well-hidden and at the same time more active. This was moons away from his Holt's land, over the one mountain peak they'd dubbed the Hatchet. It looked just like the ragged edge of a Human's hunting axe, and continued to do so while he approached. However, this did lead him through human territory as well as over the dangerous Troll lands... And into another elfin tribe's too.

It was clear that the Trolls had been watching this group too, their camps were always guarded well and they too had Troll-forged weapons at their sides. They were also Wolfriders like his tribe, possibly even related closely - they weren't all that far away. Just far enough for their wolf packs to never come in contact.

Weeds made his presence known with a short introductory howl, which was answered promptly by a group of challenges. "Well that's not good," he muttered. Their wolves were shaggier than his, had seen plenty of battles with the Trolls. But they eventually welcomed him, if briefly, into their camps.

He explained his situation, and they grimly told him of their own missing or dead. But at least, the one possibility existed that since Forge had originally only been interested in trades and not attacks, they might have put her to work instead of merely killing and eating her.

That thought caused a moment that Weeds never forgot. The image of his mother, her brilliant scarlet hair blended with blood and her carcass laid out on an imagined table... The tribe's local healer set his mind at ease then: she could see the same image, a powerful empath, and wanted to make sure he knew: that would be the worst - and that would probably not be what happened.

So he continued his search, after another incident which the healer was glad to be present for: only this time, her skills were hard pressed to keep Weeds alive. They hunted, and this time it wasn't even Wine who ruined it for them. It was one of the younger and fresher hunters' wolves who was unwittingly in the path of a big longtooth's kill!

They'd found it, but the winds were against them. They couldn't tell whether the deer had snared in the roots of this tree and broken its leg that way, or just what... But it turned out that it'd been cornered by the huge longtooth, who was now returning to feast.

Weeds defended bravely, he was even called out by the hunt chief that night. It wasn't his javelin that killed the beast, but it was his which blinded it to the next blow, and saved more than just his own life. But he'd always have scars from thos terrible, terrible claws - he asked to keep them, they would remind him to keep Wine from jumping in where she ought not, and himself to be cautious as well.

As he parted company with the elves, he shared some of his dreamberry seeds, and they offered him their own specialty: grape wine! This was different! He started his exotic collection of seeds thus. Then, packed with things carried on Wine's back (not even grudgingly, she was always eager to help) he began the most frightful part of his journey: Underground, in the Troll's tunnels.


There was glowing lichen almost everywhere, and Weeds realized he could use that with his shaping power along the way. So he scraped off generous amounts of it, spread it over the end of a branch he'd made light and bulbous, and created a softly glowing, fireless, torch. It gave off meek light, but it was more than enough for the nocturnal elf and his furry companions.

The entrance that he chose to use was farther east, in a set of hardly-hunted crevaces. The elves knew of it, but also knew they weren't used by the Trolls much either, probably because the next ground-quake could collapse the tunnels. He knew he'd have to double back a little, the tunnels led deeply downward into the chilly mountainside - probably snaked through who knew how many elfin and human territories! Most would never know, some would but at what a cost.

He heard sounds now and again, carried through the stone corridors. He knew he was in constant danger, just by being there - but he went on. He ate sparingly, and the wolves caught what they could live because they didn't much care for the smoked and dried meats in Weeds' packs. There was a constant supply of water, almost all of it pretty clean, filtered by the weight of the stones above. He followed one such watery path long enough to feel he was under the very spine of the world itself.

It was cold, and dark. If he ever got out, he grumbled mentally to his wolf friends, he'd never bother with caves and tunnels again! He had seen several pockets of Troll activity, loud gambling and even a strange hunting party which had captured a ground-digging animal the likes of which Weeds had never seen. He had to force Wine to remain silent and motionless, lest she bring the fivesome down on them too!

Weeds sent for his mother, too, thinking as clearly and hard as he could, in all directions. He wished he could feel the loving, strong presence of her mind once more. He'd know it in an instant, if only his range was good enough. She could be moons and moons away - in any direction - by now.

But that did not deter Weeds from his quest. He stuck with his instincts and just walked where the path took him. Sometimes he rested in little natural grottos, others in what appeared to be old unused store-rooms. He picked up a fair bit of interesting plant material on the way too - molds mostly, things which he saw the Trolls eating in soups and the like. They were bitter, sometimes hard to chew, but all better than starving to death down here!

It did surprise him that the hunting parties of Trolls kept bringing things in: they were so far below the surface, but apparently they did hunt above ground in addition to the weird underworld creatures like blind white fish and those huge mole-creatures. Maybe they were trading other elves - or even Humans for them.

It took some walking, and a few close calls, before Weeds had to venture back up to the surface. It had been more than two full Mother-moons, since he'd actually seen the moons. He didn't dare howl for joy, he knew that these Trolls were nearby more than most. He trekked across the harder, drier plains now, aware that more Humans than anything else would be on his tail if he let them. So he rode Cane a little more often, not wanting to leave footprints as distinct as a four-toed elf's.

They hunted, feasted, Weeds dried out more of the meat he could use, and finally they headed back down when they located yet another disused Troll tunnel entrance. This one was far, far from Weeds' Holt, he couldn't see the Hatchet any more - it was farther behind him than he really could imagine. He wasn't all that dashingly intelligent after all. But he was loyal, he was steady.

He was lonely, too, and even the presence of the Trolls would probably make him feel better than he did now. He wasn't used to being on his own. Besides he'd hardly hit his fifth hand of hands - all this walking was making him strong, but he'd almost forgotten how to speak, and surely his sending would be weaker than ever now, that he hadn't practiced it aside from calling for his mother all this time!

But he did practice with his plant-shaping, and it grew into something that even their chief could be proud of. He could sense through the roots, whether a bird was perching on a branch above. The molds and lichens all but followed him with pasty glowing 'eyes' as he passed. He'd long since learned to use the walls themselves to light his way, though a Troll might not notice very much difference, the tiny glimmer of light that it provided his sensitive eyes was enough to lead him again through the dank carved tunnels.

It was a place that hardly any elf could imagine. There were plenty of tribes who lived in natural caves, and with a few rock-shapers (they had only a story of one who had died hundreds of hands before Weeds' time in their tribe) could make a good living in the side of a cliff or the top of a mountain. But this... this was a set of tunnels which led literally from the cap of the frozen mountains, all the way to the World's Spine - more than seven thousand miles of interconnected tubes and rooms. Some were hardly used, the area where Weeds walked now for instance was certainly more dusty than any other he'd been in. But others, particularly those where elves or advanced humans lived above, were more habited.

It was entirely foreign to him, but he kept on. These plains tunnels were higher up, dipping only into underground rivers for a time, clearly something to keep the Trolls alive more than anything else if they were journeying this far. So there were plenty of places that in the ground above him, had long visible cracks, some led to open air - which he relished. He hadn't found any signs that there had been life here in this section for a long while.

But when he got to the mountains... There were plenty of signs. Hammer blows - loud, forge-sounds. His heart leapt, maybe... He started sending again, not feverish but certainly not quite sanely.

It wasn't his mother that replied, but it was an elf, alive and captive of the Trolls.

**You should turn away! This place is death!**


He sent the wolves up to the surface, where they were to hunt and then hide. He'd easily be able to find them, they were his soul's stars - they wanted to stay with him, protect him, but they were also hungry and easily convinced his presence wasn't needed for that.

**Send again, I need to find you!** Weeds thought, and got a glimmer again from the elf who'd tried brushing him away. He got no answer, but could still feel the presence. It was not dying.

**How many are there? Elves?** He asked, and that got another reply, from a younger, less trained mind.

**There are a hand and one of us, stranger, we are kept moving rocks and cooking.** She had a pleasant, but ragged edged mind voice.

**It is not safe for anyone to try rescuing us, stranger, we are done for here. Leave while you can! Warn anyone near!** Interrupted the other voice. His was old, angry now.

**I'm not going to leave any elf down there, if I can help it,** Weeds asserted. That elicited a little cry of thanks from the female, and another more vague sense from another elf, who might have been just out of range.

Through the next few hours, they determined that two of the elves - the females - were kept in the kitchens to do the lighter work, they were obviously not as strong as their male counterparts and weren't allowed to visit the deeper areas. Of the males, one of them just didn't send properly at all. It was explained, carefully and with a more private lock-send, that this elf was damaged beyond all sense and repair. He had been abused so badly as a shaper, his limbs shriveled and maimed to make him perform. They were down by the forges, where that elf and the other two more healthy males were made to move stones.

It was work that was clearly not suited to elfin hands or stature. The Trolls were strong, each of them probably stronger than any wolf (maybe not stronger than Wine) and yet they made elves do this hard, back breaking job. The shaper was there to soften the rock, and then the smaller bits were carted off by the elves toward the forge. They never got into it, the heat and the danger was too much, and in fact the Trolls were still apt to jealously guard their secrets even from doomed slaves.

The male who had tried to protest was the eldest of the batch, and was older than most Wolfriders could grow. He was pureblooded, apparently, and had a clear distaste for this dirty, heavy work. It was one of the females that suggested he trade places with her, she hated cooking and would rather have been in his spot, that made Weeds wonder.

Did he even recognize his own mother's mind? ... he'd have to find out. The problem was that the Trolls were devilishly clever: they never let the elves remain together for very long. They had overlapping work shifts, but they would sleep while another worked. They didn't bed down together, but the Trolls also didn't know they could send their thoughts to one another. This was clearly the only thing that kept any of them sane.

The one female explained where to find the waste pit, where she was headed with the buckets of Troll dung (oh what a horrible thought, having to cart dung from those beasts!) where she knew she could find some privacy. Weeds headed there, and soon was rewarded by the appearance of a very dirty, but sturdy-limbed girl. Her ear had been clipped, and her hand showed half a finger had been cut off. She probably had other wounds, but all healed. She was visibly about to weep when he appeared across the pit, but they couldn't get any closer than that - the pit was wide, and had no rim to climb across. There were no vines nor roots to shape, either.

**My eyes see with joy,** she thought, **I sense though... you're disappointed?**

**Not in you!** He immediately thought back, **I seek my mother, and I thought... if anyone would try and get into the forges instead of cooking, that might be... well, it's you, instead, but you remind me of her.**

With that realization: he was seeking someone? Here? She nodded and continued to unload the offal from her cart into the deep, smelly pit. It was reeking already but the fresh stink made it worse.

**Have you seen ... well, my mother?** Weeds sent as clear an image as he could, the red-headed leather-bound woman whose startling green eyes might have been the only indication of Wolfrider: otherwise she could have been made of metal herself. Golden skin, flame-colored hair.

**I have to say no, but ... I am newest though.** It turned out that she had been the latest of abductions, while two others had in fact come from the tribe Weeds had denned with briefly. He spared news of them, they were mostly well, they had an excellent healer, and he was glad that these captives still lived. But then he asked of another, one of those two, the same question.

**I remember her, she was noisy, the Trolls were cruel to her but fair - she knew more than any elf about the forges already.** He silently spoke. They had met too, in a sleep nook which had an air vent, above which Weeds crouched and looked down into with difficulty. They had reached and barely touched fingers, the other elf wept. **I do not think they took her this direction, though... I think they took her north, the other side of the tunnels.**

That nearly crushed Weeds, but he pressed on. He would try and rescue this group. Probably not the shaper - there would be no point, according to the eldest. That elf was long gone, in mind and body, and would meet his end with or without rescue - without knowing or understanding.

Somehow, he'd have to find a way to get them out one by one, because it would be nigh impossible to get them all together let alone out as a group. Plus, they each had shackles on their ankles - easily grabbed by a Troll hook-tool, which was described before he saw it in action the one night.

Weeds went up to the surface as frequently as he could, and smuggled meat and fresh fruits to the elves. Slowly but surely, they grew stronger than their captors realized. He impressed upon them though: keep quiet, keep sullen, keep looking bad. That would be the only way to lull them into the belief that the elves were too weak to run.

The group was quite varied - two Wolfriders, a Plains female, and the standoffish Glider. One by one, Weeds managed to visit them with stocks of food and hope for the future. It kept him on his toes too: he knew that there could be Trolls watching his every move.

Above ground, in an area near the exit he'd been using, Weeds had made a huge tangle of tree limbs and thorn brush - it was obvious that no Troll-sized creature might pass through it, and plus it looked entirely natural. It would be the place where he would bring the elves, when he got them out.

To Weeds, there was no 'if'. It was simply when. He would not abandon them and go looking elsewhere for his mother now - they came first, they were in need, and he was there. No Humans were about in this part of the woods, either, which was good. He could tell by the wanderings during hunts, that there were plenty around, but none bedded here regularly. Down on the plains, many of them danced and had their drums and traded - even with elves, which was something that surprised Weeds, but Soothe the Plainsdweller assured him that not every band of Humans were bloodthirsty killers!

The Wolfriders, Moonsight and Bats, were as different as they came. Moonsight was able to maintain a sexy rounded build even in the Troll caverns, and was while clearly intelligent, a bit of a ditz. Her bearded companion Bats... now there was an elf. Older than Weeds' grandsire by centuries, but hardly weak in body or spirit. It was the Glider, Uktui, who was ancient and felt it entirely inappropriate to be lifting things for the brutish Trolls.

Weeds spent a full Moon's pass designing their escape route. Using the natural roots above, he encouraged the trees to stretch their roots even farther, strengthening them as he needed to, through the dirt and around big stones. Finally, he brought one set of them to the offal pit where he knew Soothe would be working. He drew others to a sharply upright pillar, a smoke-tunnel, which could not be used by Trolls even if they were tiny. They were easily climbed, and it was oddly Uktui who suggested he would be able to use them - besides, he was more slender than the Wolfriders, and could wiggle away upwards on the roots with hardly a glance.

That left Bats and Moonsight. Bats would be the more difficult, because his sleeping area was right next to the entry to the forges. That place was better guarded than most, and one mistake could cost everything. Moonsight had to be guided, she was utterly lost in the tunnels, and had been repeatedly beaten by her Trollish masters because of it.

Weeds constructed a set of flowering plants, tiny ones which looked more like outcrops of shimmering stone than anything else. But she could smell them - their scent would guide her to a more open grotto and then out to the glen, through a hidden flap of moss.

It would be her first: she was more likely to be cursed and yelled for, than actually searched out by the Troll women. Likely the same time, Uktui would be able to slip away when he was sent to rest. Soothe's trip into the offal pit could be covered simply by pulling the cart she took into the pit behind her: who would search their own shit for an elf?!

And it went off nicely... Moonsight let her nose do the work, when she was between shifts. She'd made sure to put plenty of extra spices to cover the badly rotted meat she used in the meal the hours before - which would lead a lot of the Trolls to have some extra-extra bad grunting while they waited for Soothe's cart...

She emerged from the tunnel, fumbling her hands around and was near-blinded even by the twin moons overhead. "Shh," Weeds said, holding his fingers over her mouth which was clearly about to howl for joy. "Not yet. Cane will take you to the glen, hurry." He put her bodily onto the smaller of his wolves, and sent to the male to carry her carefully.

Uktui was organized, together, and tried to look unrattled, as he clambored up out of the ground some distance away. He was from the Gliders, but he was not a glider: he was another kind of shaper, and could not have lifted himself much farther out of the long tunnel. His arms limply flopped by his sides, as he stumbled toward Weeds' mind signal.

He was unseen, that was good. It was all good that the grime and dirt of the tunnels would aid them just as much outside, in camouflaging themselves, as it did underground.

Then came Soothe, and it was apparent that she'd quickly need to ditch her clothing and take a well-needed bath: that extra spicy dish - wafted with her as she had dipped the cart into the pit below. She even let off a scream and pretended to gargle horribly, dropping thick stones into the offal pit to make it sound like she was flailing around. No one would go investigate that, she even heard the local Troll say so! Not even for fire-eye gems, which they had been gambling, quite close.

So while Soothe was bathing in the river behind the glen's thorn bush shield, and the other two were taking a well-needed sleep guarded by Cane...

It was now time to get Bats out.


Wine came with him, this time, into the sloping unnatural steps that led into the forges. He would have to be bold, quick, and if need be, deadly.

While the others up top were trying desperately to get the shackles off their swollen and scarred ankles, Weeds was working out just how he could do this.

He remembered one particular thing, when he saw a soot-covered Troll exiting the forges, coughing and spitting.

**When I say, drop to the ground, hold your breath, and come toward me by sending. Don't open your eyes.** He sent, and knew Bats thought this was an interesting plan... If it worked.

Weeds took another moment to concentrate. His plant pouch had a particular marsh-grown puffball mushroom in it. Well, the spores of one anyway. He briefly put the spores into the dirt beside him in the dim coridor. Concentrating on his magic, it was actually quite easy compared to some of the things he'd done - the wet dirt was sodden, this area was a sluiceway for the forges activities, and was often much wetter. The marshland puffer grew to an enormous size in mere minutes, they did grow quickly in the wild too - overnight! So, only accellerating it a little, but making it a tiny bit more durable - and adding one single extra bit of magic for the purpose, Weeds picked up his prize and headed down the sluice.

There were plenty of overhanging rocks, jagged things which added to the atmosphere of oppression here. The forge was hot, even out here past the room, it was almost glowing with heat. The endless beat of hammers falling threatened to deafen Weeds' ears, but he formulated a plan. There were three guards, one aiding the coughing Troll with a cloth and water. They were both occupied, and wouldn't be a problem. It was the other two, who kept close eye on their elfin slave. There were Troll slaves too, told apart by the shackles again. What monsters, who could subjugate their own people like that!

Weeds noticed that Bats had done something odd - he'd slipped and fallen near one of the carts, and got up with a grunt a moment later, quite stiffly. The guards laughed at him, but they wouldn't be laughing much longer. Because he had a lot of experience throwing hunting nets, Weeds knew just the right way to toss this big head-sized puffball that it would explode on the heads of the guards!

**Ready yourself,** he sent, as he threw the ball into the air. It impacted the first rock above, giving it just that one split needed - and then it tumbled downwards over the heads of the two guards, where it fairly exploded into a shower of toxic - and highly sneeze-worthy - spores! **GO!**

As he was ready, Bats dropped and scampered toward Weeds' mind, which let off a series of encouraging emotions. He could see easily through the mess, the wounded Troll and his companion didn't even bother looking up at the sneezing pair - maybe this was something entirely more common than Weeds expected! Well, common or not, the guards were taken off their mark, unable to open their piggy eyes wide enough to see as their final captive elf escaped up the sluiceway.

They could hear though: metal on stone distinctly from the angled waterway. The sounds of their coughing and sneezing turned to yelling and angry pounding, but even when they tried opening the sluice to possibly dislodge the elves there - roots and natural detritus had already gotten in the way.

Weeds waited until just the right moment, and shaped the roots free - letting a huge gush of water through the sluice instead of a trickle. He didn't wait around to listen for the results - Wine had picked up their new friend, and was waiting for him to jump on too.

They made it without incident to the glen, where Weeds made the rest of their encampment impossible to locate from the other side as well. They would stay there until the Trolls stopped looking - and they did look.

They could hardly believe it: their hard-won slaves, all gone within days! Well who could say what happened to the one... Maybe the directionless wonder would show up some day - she had done so in the past, crying for help and being actually thankful that the Trolls had found her at all!

They counted the taller elf Uktui as a loss as easily as they would the midden-pit girl - he was fragile and shouldn't have been used so much for hard work. Maybe the girl had been right: he might have had a better chance working the crappers, and they might have had the girl work down in the forge...

All that, discussed in harsh words by the search parties as they clambored around and even over the elves' shelter. It was fortified, and did remain looking quite normal - and could easily be shaped so that the wolves could go and hunt. Weeds had hastily remembered to 'fix' the plants where they'd run away from the entrances to the tunnels: it wouldn't do to have a trail lead directly to them! So he overgrew a little here, made stickerplants there, all in all making it a much more difficult task to even see where the ground was, let alone all the wolf and elf prints on it!

But it was only days later, when they had time to relax a little, that Bats pulled out the tool which he'd stolen while he 'slipped' in the forge. It was a clipper, one which could at least be used to free them of the heavy chains between the shackles, if not the metal rings themselves.


Continued in Captives! (note that while he has a story bit about a location, nothing ever came from that place for him)

*** 2022 *** the year is around 340

"You know those strange wolves, they're looking for you," Squall said, with a shrug. She wasn't going to tell him everything, let him find out on his own...