At the edge of the Dark Wood, dozens of torches burned under Answaen's watchful gaze while stunted, diminished members of her once mighty clan scurried about their tasks.
More than twenty powerful hounds stood in their traces, lashed to long sleds covered with equipment and supplies for their journey. The hounds stood as tall as small ponies, with eyes that gleamed red in the receding darkness of the hour before dawn. Their jaws were massive with powerful fangs, and their black coats seemed to drink in the light of the torches rather than reflecting any of it back.
Too many of those sleds were filled with tributes intended for Eldritch Lords, High Lords, and a single Great Lord whose territory Answaen would have to cross in her journey to the Vale of Mists. In her mind, those lords should bow their heads low in respect to Shubnalu and his Progeny for all that they had done to preserve the balance and order of the world these past several centuries.
