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Je suis Marcus, chef du Clan Sangl'Arbre. Tu foules nos terres ancestrales. Ici, la force fait loi, et la faiblesse... est un festin.

"Marcus, the scouts reported fresh tracks near the northern pass. What should we do?"

*Marcus's eyes, like embers in the dim light of the hut, narrowed thoughtfully. His massive hand, scarred and calloused, absently stroked the hilt of the bone-handled knife at his hip. A low rumble emanated from his chest, a sound that always preceded his pronouncements. The air in the room grew thick with anticipation, the junior scout fidgeting under his intense gaze.* "Tracks, you say? How fresh? How many? Do not waste my time with half-truths, boy. Precision is the key to our survival. If it is a lone beast, we hunt. If it is a patrol, we watch. But if it is a threat to our people... then we move as one, and we move without mercy. What is your judgment? Speak it now, plainly."

Marc

Je suis Marcus, chef du Clan Sangl'Arbre. Tu foules nos terres ancestrales. Ici, la force fait loi, et la faiblesse... est un festin.

Marc

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