| Even though Wren isn’t sure what the shrine looks like, it isn’t too hard to find. In part because there are familiar features. Her tribe also worships the Old Gods, placing carved statues of the five great beings by a bend in the stream. With wood somewhat rare, the mountain tribe probably uses metal, but it should still be somewhere near water. The crowd up on one hill by the junction of the stream and the irrigation ditch is the second clue. Why else would they gather if not for something important? And Nerta’s words certainly seem important…
“I don’t know if the Gods are actually fighting dragons for control of the world, and I don’t really care. I just want the Crystal-Cursed ghost gone, but none of us have any idea how to do that.” Nerta’s jaw tightens as a breeze snaps at her cloak. No doubt old Aldo complaining. “But someone might know about this ‘locus of power’ or ‘dragon tears’ and at least asking after that has kept the Old Man quiet for a week.”
A wolf-totem woman dressed in ritual attire sitting on Cormac’s left is the first to respond. “I question not your motives, Nerta, but that of the ghost. So convenient that his hunt for power has once again brought him to us. Like the Emperor before him, the lowlanders only seek us out to steal our secrets and exploit our people. Our ancestors aided them and what did it get us? Ancient treaties that became so many empty promises.”
The looming bear frowns and nods, but does not speak. Instead a weathered man with antennae coughs before muttering. “Nevermind lowlanders, ghosts are always tricky things. I’m not convinced this one was sent by the Dark Mistress. I mean sure, some people linger in the world rather than join the Court of Shades, but I’ve never heard of the Goddess of Death sending someone. That kind of trick is far more common with the Soul Crusher.”
“Not to mention, this ghost has been holding Nerta hostage for months.” The young sheep-totem woman hanging laundry from earlier butts in. “Sounds more like an agent of the Crystal Maiden than the Kind Mother.”
“Quite right, the ant-totem man picks up the thought and carries it further. “Why, how do we know that this ghost hasn’t done something to Nerta? Possessed her or misled her? Through no fault of her own she could be an agent of the enemy.”
This line of thinking alarms Wren. Nerta, an enemy? In the thrall of the Crystal Maiden? No. No! Impossible! But the crowd murmurs and her friend scowls.
“Really, Aidan? Possessed? Working for the Deep One?” Her friend’s glittering eyes narrow. “I thought you were a smith not a weaver, any more fanciful tales you want to spin?”
The old man’s antenna twitch and he sniffs. “I didn’t say you were at fault; only that we should be cautious about ghosts. Ghosts who kidnap our daughters for unknown reasons. Surely you would have her return Cormac, bad blood aside.”
The Huntmaster frowns, his head turning to the side as he ponders. That he gives it serious thought is surprising to Wren, should not a father say ‘yes’ at once? The gathering seems to expect the pause and waits for the man’s rumbling voice so like the roll of thunder. “Duty’s impahrtent and even de mohst stobbern rohck can be smoothed by a stream. If dis geist cen finahlly teach 'er, all de better.”
Nerta’s eternal scowl deepens, but before she can find her voice the wolf-woman snarls. “Give it a rest Cormac, your daughter isn’t interested in becoming Huntmaster.”
The bear turns and leans close, the wolf’s ears flattening as he stares her down. Finally he snorts. “Hwhat she hwants doesn’ mahtter. She’ll leahrn te do as she needs...”
“Of course. I need help, but what do you care? Make it all about what you want, Cormac.” Nerta’s hiss drips with venom. “Look down your noses at the lowlanders all you want, but you play as many games. Gwendolyn,” she jabs a finger at the woman, “wants her son to be huntmaster so her family can have even more prestige. As if ‘druid’ isn’t enough for your ambition…”
Gwendolyn’s hackles rise and she slips out of Cormac’s shadow to try and loom over the angry spider. “You are your father’s daughter, such disrespect.”
Something chitters in the back of Nerta’s mouth as she sneers at the wolf. “Ambition and pride. Is there any vice you won’t put on display today, Gwendolyn?”
“Det’s me gurl!” Cormac laughs, his massive hand resting atop his belly. “Hit de bihtch on de nose an’ watch ‘er run.”
Realising she is pleasing her father with her antics, Nerta throws up her hands. “Enough! I came asking for help, but you’re either scared,” she points to Aidan and the unnamed sheep-totem, “Or want to use me as a pawn in your game.” If her father’s narrowing eyes worries her, Nerta shows no sign. “Neither I, nor Caden want this, but you two are Abyss-bent on forcing it. Even the Crystal-Cursed Old Man occasionally listens; you two have no excuse.” Pushing Gwendolyn back, Nerta turns to stalk out of the ring. “Coming here was a mistake.”
The murmuring crowd is almost as fired up as the gathered council, leaving Wren to shrink away. The shouts and shoving can quickly grow into a brawl as various beasts rise to the fore. The little bird had seen this before. When instinct and passion goaded action that was later regretted. Back home usually a chief, bard or druid would try to sooth tempers but that seems pretty far from everyone’s mind. There’s nothing she could do. She, she needed to get out of the crowd. Get to Nerta…
The press of bodies doesn’t budge, trapping Wren in the herd as the sheep-totem confronts Nerta. “Convenient you turn to leave after sowing discord. Maybe you are a servant of the Cryst-...”
The woman doesn’t even finish before her friend punches her. Wren can only watch wide eyed as the fury of the crowd is unleashed. Soon Nerta is battling others, her many arms letting her fend off the angry ewe and her husband long enough for a few allies to step in and help. But as things spiral out of control the little bird loses sight of what happens next.
The heat of the crowd choking her, a hand grabs her shoulder. “You! You came with Nerta. Come on, out with it, is she cursed?”
In a panic, Wren scratches at the grapple, surprising the man enough for him to step back and earn a stray blow from a third party. It doesn’t distract the angry hawk-totem for long who screeches and lunges for Wren, but a sudden roar cuts into the brawl like a blade.
Towering above the mob like an angry volcano is Cormac, his visage having transformed to that of his bear-totem. “Enough! Daft fools de’lot a ye! De rin’ ihs sacred an’ ye fight before et like beasts? Shame on ye.”
Gwendolyn seems to find her voice next. “Cormac is right. Such a display angers the Gods.” The druid gives a most imperious glare at Nerta. “You are fortunate you stepped beyond the ring before you began, or the Gods would surely have punished you.”
Her friend sneers, the effect made all the more effective by the spider-like chelicerae that had slipped from her mouth during the fight. Folding them within with a hard swallow, she can’t keep the hiss from her voice. “The Gods already punished me, Gwendolyn.”
Dropping the ewe into the arms of her husband, Nerta leaves under a storm cloud only to be tailed soon after by the trembling Wren, who’d finally broken free of the carnage. She should have realised sooner. There is a chief in this mountain tribe.
HuntMaster Cormach. | 
