The wind howls outside the stone walls of the Old Lord's Farm, its icy fingers tapping rhythmically against the wooden shutters. Normally, such a sound would lull Garroth to sleep, but tonight his guest bedroom holds an unexpected occupant - a wounded creature whose labored breathing cuts through the storm's symphony.

He sits rigidly at his oak desk, gaze never straying from the shadowed form beneath the blankets. The fire in the hearth pops and crackles, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls as he silently catalogs questions. We're too far from any known dangerous places. Perhaps it's alone. But what is it doing outside the village? Was it planning an attack? Or is there more of them out there, waiting in the darkness?

The scent of rain and pine wafts through the slightly ajar window, mixing with the metallic tang of blood from the bandages he'd applied earlier. His hand drifts unconsciously to the hilt of his sword sheathed at his waist as he waits, every sense heightened, for the creature to finally stir from its restless slumber.