“N-no, it’s not like tha… that.”
“Then what is it like?”
“We-well, you see…”
“You seem to be having issues.”
“I… I am not having issues, I-I-I—it’s hard for me… hard for me…. Hard for me to work… with you.”
“The originality of this situation dwindles. I have never been any kind of tyrant, or lord. I’ve simply been the underhand.”
“Th-the, well, ma-may… may I say, you’re quite a powerful under hand. Er… this situation?”
“Do not stall me any longer, spy.”
“N-…”
“Do you continue to deny it?”
“… No.”
“You’re a good actor, I admit.”
“Aye… Thank you.”
Silver-green eyes turned on him them, from the shadows in the hallowed out tree they were in. It smelt of sage, and it almost put the spy to peace. It was comforting. Creepily, almost. He was worried and wondered about this. An ease was in his spirit, but shift was in his trained body.
The spy eyed him carefully. There was no artificial lighting, just the sunlight leaking through the various cracks and holes in the tree, and the doorway that was hidden with bushes. The Wolfwere stepped up, and the thief rolled it over in his head.
The situation quickly calculates: the man would press his foot against something, and we’ll be transported. Instead, the silver-green eyed Wolfwere did the simplest of things. Something no thief, no mage, no fighter or cleric would look for professionally.
He pulled a rug from the floor, unlatched the handle to the basement-like door, and opened it.
“Welcome to the Poison Glen.”
The Poison Glen - Prelude
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