Garran’s weapon met Scaly Mack’s with a loud clang that reverberated through the clearing surrounding the path. The Steward dodged, parried, and lunged with an agility fueled by fury and adrenaline. Frick--bearing a victorious smirk on his face from his earlier well-placed axe throw--fanned out on the left with his counterpart on the right, while their leader and the wolfkin remained battle-locked in the middle.

Seething with rage, Garran turned, snarling viciously at his enemies. He could remember Sius telling him to never fight angry and those that fought in the heat of their bloodlust oftentimes made grave mistakes. Garran had not understood what his friend meant at the time. Now, it was clear. He had never wanted revenge so badly.

The wolfkin’s rage was not going unnoticed, either. For the first time since meeting this pack of orcs, Garran could sense hesitation. The two smaller orcs stood a few feet behind Scaly, looming well out of reach and seemed to be waiting for their leader to make a move. Garan doubted it was a form of tactical practice, but self preservation.

Typically, when you outnumber a foe, you press the advantage and encircle them. But now, Scaly had thrown caution to the wind. He and Garran paced back and forth like caged lions, lunging at their target with a quick swipe, then darting back before the other could retaliate. This dance continued for several minutes until Garran became aware that a voice--or several voices actually--were calling his name. He knew the voices, but was too far into his frenzy for recognition to take root.

Each time his name was called, the voices became more vehement and desperate. What finally brought Garran back to the moment was an old, scratchy voice said in a stern tone, “Steward!”

Garran glanced around, and realized it was Barnabas that had spoken. He looked in the ibexian’s direction and saw he was pointing at something. Following the wizard’s gaze, he turned to look in the direction he and the escapees had come from, but heard the tell-tale cracking before he saw it.

The large wall of ice had begun to fracture and break. Within seconds, the battalion of enemies that were scraping and scuffling behind the wall would be freed once more. To his surprise, Garran glanced behind him and saw that most of the escapees had disappeared. Saena, Celest, and Bjorak were standing by the Guiding Light; the first two of those were screaming his name.

“Don’t be daft, Steward. Go while you can! Grab your Bastion and go!” cried Barnabas.

At this, Garran glared at Scaly with fury and malice, “This is not over, you green bastard.” Then he dove to his wolf companion, scooped her up and tore off for the shelter of the hidden cabin, dodging a lunge from the large orc.

Teya’s muscular body was solid but limp and growing cold. Her fur was soaked in thick, red blood, and her lips were pale and dry. His feet pounded along the snow-covered ground; his wide, padded hind paws never sinking into the cold ground as he raced for the cabin.

As he neared the Guiding Light, he noted that Saena and the others had already darted into safety. With a final burst of strength, he kicked off the ground hard, leaping the final distance to the doorway. Despite his muscular build, the leap came up short. His momentum, however, prevailed. He slid through the invisible doorway to the cabin, cradling Teya in his arms protectively.

As the portal--or door or whatever it was--closed, he could hear all manner of chaos ensuing outside. There was a loud CRACK!, then a series of thunks as if fruit-sized hale were raining down from above. There was a series of shouts and scuffling as the orcs were, no doubt, searching the area for their ex-captives. Garran knew they would not find the entrance. This cabin--this safe haven--was simply that. It was a place of safety where naught could harm them.

A moment later, they were joined by Barnabas, who popped into existence on the far side of the room wearing a withered expression and exuding pure exhaustion. The goat’s typically lithe face was furrowed and tense, adding wrinkles and age to his features. He moved through the crowd of people towards Garran, hobbling slightly and leaning heavily on his cane.

To his surprise, the cabin was nothing like Garran remembered from a few days ago, but there was little time to think of that. He laid Teya’s lupine form down on a nearby bed and began looking her over.

The axe blade had embedded itself in at least two ribs in Teya’s left side. This could be worse, he thought. The ribs had done their job in protecting the vital organs beneath them. Perhaps she’ll be alright… Miraculously, the axe had not dislodged from the wound in the shuffle of getting her to safety. Had the blade slid out of its place, she could have bled out before he got to the cabin. As it was, Garran could hear her shallow breathing and could feel the faint pulse of her heart beating from her life-vein, just under her jaw.

“Damn it!” he exclaimed, and ran his blood-soaked hand over his ears, smearing red into the thick black and white fur on the top of his head. He placed his forehead gently to hers and softened his voice, “Not again, Teya. Not you...”

Several hands began working on Teya as Saena, Celest and a few others began to clean and staunch the wound with cloth that had materialized on a table nearby. No doubt, provided by Belvedere, the ever-attentive--but invisible--servant. The wolfkin heard Barnabus mutter something half-heartedly to the tune of “always knows what is needed”, making Garran glance up at the ibexian. The wizard was staring at Teya’s recumbent form with wide, caprine eyes as if he weren’t truly seeing what was playing out before him.

Swallowing down a range of emotions, the Steward placed his hands on Teya’s side. Saena was next to him, applying pressure to the wound. Garran looked down at his friend as something began to build within his gut: a sense of helplessness. The same helplessness he had felt before; just before Teya had come to him in the cave.

“What can I do?” he asked, annoyed at hearing a crack in his voice. He cleared his throat and hit Saena with a hard stare, willing her to reassure him that everything was fine.

“I need a bit o’ hot water from the fire, a disinfectin’ poultice, and some way to close this wound,” she replied authoritatively.

Absent-mindedly, he traced the thread Sius had used to stitch his jerken, “Thread. We need a needle and thread,” he said looking at Barnabas.

After what seemed like a year, Garran and Saena sat next to Teya’s sleeping form. Once Saena had finished stitching the wound, a bit of color had come back into Teya’s gums and her breathing--while still shallow--had at least evened out.

Garran sat in silence for a time watching the steady rise and fall of the wolf’s chest. He mindlessly fidgeted with a blanket in his lap that someone had apparently handed him at some point, but he could not say from whom or when. From the sounds of clanking, paired with the mouth-watering aroma of stewed meats and vegetables wafting around the now much larger cabin, Belvedere had apparently prepared a soup for all of them. This really is a strange place, he reflected.

He had known about magic and wizards all his life, but living up in the Icy Peaks, it wasn’t encountered very often. It was common knowledge, however, that the daktas could perform a variety of magic such as the rituals and spells, and he had seen his share of rituals. But Barnabas’ magic, and the magic he found himself now capable of, was different.

The rituals he had seen cast during rites, or before hunting or war parties always required more than one participant to complete. And they typically required something in the form of offering, such as food, or … Garran shuddered involuntarily as his thoughts turned to Rala. Her life had been the offering--or sacrifice really--for that ritual. She had offered her life up without a second thought. And for what? Because she had believed that he was some Steward from a prophecy?

And she had given everything, putting Teya’s life in his hands. And he had failed Teya. He had let her, Rala, and Sius down. What am I doing? Aegis… What is it you want from me? I am no one. And now because of all of this, some magical being has Sius? Was that even the purpose all along? Was Sius taken because of me?

The voice had made demands for the she-wolf and knew she was a Bastion, but then why Sius? This had been nagging at him for some time. None of this had made sense to him before, but he hadn’t had the time to think about it.

Did this yellow-eyed being know Teya had lost her powers? And why the heck were the gnolls and orcs involved? His head throbbed, but as he was reaching up to place his face in his hands, something tugged lightly on his sleeve.

Celest stood in front of him holding a small basin of soap and water perched on her tiny hip, “Mr. Garran, sir. I thought ye might... Ye have … Your head is…'' she trailed off at a loss for words, and the wolfkin realized she was crying. He reached out to her to embrace her and realized what she’d been trying to say. His hands, clothing, and likely his face were still covered in Teya’s blood.

After a microsecond of hesitation, he took the basin from her and placed it on the floor, and scooped the young girl up in the blanket, holding her through the throes of her sobs. She had lost so much. Her father had died, and she had witnessed her uncle being slain right in front of her. Not to mention, she had been slowly freezing to death in that cell.

His heart ached for her, but this aching was coupled with a deep sense of anger. He was angry that all everyone outside his tribe seemed to do is take, take, take. In his home, everything was traded, bartered, bargained, and shared. There was little reason for greed when everyone had what they needed.

But here, the orcs took what they wanted, killed or destroyed the rest. Wasted things they did not want. For what? For intimidation? For cruelty? Scaly and the others better hope I do not cross their paths again.

And what about the voice? What was their angle of taking? They’d offered Sius back as a trade, but only after they’d taken him for a bargaining tool to begin with. And if this creature wanted something as powerful as a Bastion, they likely wanted to take more; not give.

“Mr. Garran?” the girl said quietly, once the sobs had finally abated.

“Yes, malak siska?” he asked softly, laying his cheek on the top of her head

“How do you say ‘thank you, big brother’ in your wolf language?”

The wolfkin swallowed hard, and cleared his throat before replying, “Todaka, galak brokta”.

He waited for a moment, expecting her to parrot it back to him, but realized she’d fallen asleep in his arms.

For the first time, he truly glanced around the large, open room. The cabin had significantly transformed from when he was previously here. Before, it was set up like a small mountain chalet; with a small table in the center, a fireplace along the main wall, and beds nestled comfortably in the corners.

This time, the cabin was massive; more the size of a lodge. It was set up similar to a longhouse, but with an ‘L’-shaped wing attached that was separated from the main room. The great room’s walls were lined with cots neatly made with blankets and pillows. Where there had been three beds before, there were now more than two dozen lining the long, straight walls.

A table, like before, was centered directly under the apex of the vaulted roof. However, it was now transformed into a massive longtable dominating the center of the cabin. Several of the cabin’s occupants sat at this grand buffet and were fully focused on the task of devouring stew.

A few of the other escapees were on cots near him being seen by Saena with a range of injuries. Each presented tell-tale signs of malnutrition, as did all of the escapees in the cabin. A few had various cuts and bruises being bandaged up. And one human had a head injury that was now heavily wrapped in gauze. I feel your pain, Garran grimaced, remembering the lump the orcs had gifted him a few days prior.

Garran’s eyes fell upon Barnabas, whose demeanor seemed to have returned somewhat. He was chatting animatedly with Bjorak; the latter, staring forward with his typical dour expression. The little goat-man glanced up and met the wolfkin’s eyes, abruptly cutting off what he had been saying, then caught himself and continued his chatter. The minotaur didn’t seem to notice, and continued staring in deep rumination.

“Is there anything that ye’ need, Steward?” Saena’s voice pulled him from his observations.

The wolfkin glanced around the room again, and then down to his lap where Celest was resting and breathed in a peaceful rhythm. All of the faces were the same: dirt-covered, exhausted, but full of relief. “There are a few things we could use. But first, I think we could all use a warm bath and some rest,” he said finally. And with great effort to not wake her, he slid his weary body out from under the sleeping girl, covered her with a blanket, and headed towards Barnabas to make some much-needed arrangements.