A light drizzling rain peppered the town as he trudged into view. Hours out in the highland slopes had brought back a good hunt, and he had a nice stack of pelts to show for it. The forests and fields were richer than the plains down south. Even the variety of game was better here too. Five cleaned deerskins, four wolf pelts, and a handful of pheasants. This was what he had after a two weeks of living off the land in this beautiful place. Foraging brought plenty, but he never took more than he could eat. That was how the earth would replenish itself. As long as a few stragglers made it, then it could begin the cycle anew. The trees and beasts were his brothers–as Sparrowhawk had taught him. The earth was their mother, long before the first trees sprouted. She could only care for everyone as long as she was cared for in turn.

Setting foot in the town, he made his way to the trading post. It was a shack slightly larger than the rest of the cabins, and there were merchants and other traders of goods inside selling or purchasing wares. Wagons and carts were hitched outside and the feeding trough was crowded. Another busy day it would seem. "Five deerskin hides and four mountain wolf pelts. I still have the antlers if you want them." Setting down the pack on the wooden table, he pulled up a chair across a gaunt-faced man with a wispy beard. "Hmm, a nice haul. Clean and good quality furs too. The deerskin's size will fetch a higher price, especially when it's all in one piece." He slid across a small pouch of coins. "Fifty-five silver for the whole lot. Without the antlers. Nobody's been buying recently." 

"They're yours." Taking the coin, he pushed the stack of animal skins to the man. The other inspected the undersides, then they shook hands to finish the exchange. Leaving the shack, he counted his earnings. He was able to get a dozen more compared to last month. With the warmer weather coming in leather would be in higher demand. He wouldn't be making as much off fur pelts for a while, though. Demand was limited in small settlements like these. Whiterock was a small collective of two dozen houses or more, just barely enough to qualify as a village. There was a granary, farms, and a few other things–but nothing outside of basic self-sufficiency. Walter had his camp out on the treeline before the woodland. It was shaded by the tall pines that surrounded the old shelter, acting as a buffer against the Glaciem gusts. 

Feeling parched, he wandered to the pub for drink. He hadn't touched a drop since a fortnight, and now the moons were in a better position he didn't have to worry as much. Seating himself at the bar, he noticed it got real quiet once he came in. It was another case of the cold shoulder close-knit communities like these were known for. He'd gotten used to it by now, and ordered an ale. The good thing about the drink in out-of-the-way places was that they watered it down more than the bigger towns. He wasn't drinking for drinking's sake, he just wanted a little taste every now and then. 

"Is that him?" He heard a voice murmur a ways from him. "Yeah, sittin' up there like he's done nothin'." Walter told himself to ignore it. Picking fights wasn't something he wanted. It was hard enough to be allowed into villages as is. Hearing somebody walk up to him, he turned to see a round-faced man with a crinkled hat drooping over the side. "So you're that yellow-bellied dog who gutted Abe Malley out in the rain, aren'tcha?" The man grabbed him roughly by the collar, causing Walter to spill some of his ale onto the woodwork. All the eyes of the patrons in the pub were on him, as Walter looked back at the roughneck. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The rain was coming down pretty hard, and the roads were turning into mud. The wagons weren't able to go on much further, so they pulled into the nearest village to wait it out. If they tried to keep driving under these conditions, the wheels would get stuck and it'd be over. Cold and uncomfortable, Shiloh slid out from the back of the cart and paid the driver a few coins for the ride. Using the Clephsydra every time she needed to travel was costly, as fuel for the airship didn't come cheap. It was her pride and joy, so if she could she wanted to use it as little as possible. Her last meal had been yesterday, and she was running low on supplies. She'd pick up a few dried goods from the traders' post later. Right now a roof and a hot meal was all Shiloh wanted.

Using a quick spell to disguise her appearance, she took off the mask she had been wearing during her trip up to this point. Here she couldn't go around with that on. Too many people would stare, and they might refuse to sell her anything. The tavern wasn't exactly in great shape. It had seen better days…namely days that were a five years ago. This was a pretty small rural settlement, so that was expected. Coming in, she saw several people standing and looking at the bar. There were two men who were a hair's length away from starting a brawl, and she didn't want to go back out into the rain again. Annoyed that a bunch of men were preventing her from getting warm food, she walked up through the crowd and crossed her arms. "You wanna take this outside? The barkeep has a customer waiting." The man in a weather-beaten hat turned to her and gave a condescending leer. "Just who do you think you are, you fresh-faced greenhorn too big for his boots?" The other man didn't say anything, and it was obvious that he wanted to leave. Leaning on her left leg, she put a hand to the broadsword tied to her belt. "A fresh-faced greenhorn who can knock you down so hard you'll be crawling out of this tavern on your hands and knees–that's who." She shot back. Rounds of raucous laughter burst out among the other patrons, and the man with the hat spat at her feet. 

Before the mocking laughter could have a chance to die down, Shiloh swiftly swung her leg out high and hit him square below the belt with as much force as a high kick. The color drained from his face as he dropped to the ground, writhing on the floor in agony. A hush fell over the entire pub and nobody dared to say a word. Leaving the man on the ground, she coolly took a seat at the bar. "I'll have whatever you can make in fifteen minutes. No alcohol." A still silence hung in the air, and the man with salt and pepper hair took the chance to leave. Nobody followed him; they were too shaken by what had just happened. They probably thought she was joking when she said she'd bring him to his knees. Of course, nobody said she had to do it with a weapon or her fists. When her food was ready, she polished it off and paid the barkeep before leaving herself. 

The rain was letting up, and she was in a bad mood. Just when she thought this day couldn't be more irritating, there was a mob of people outside now. There were farmers and other village folk out with clubs and the occasional rake or pitchfork surrounding somebody. It was the same man who had left the tavern after she had sat down. One look and she could smell the signs of a lynching in the works. In bigger towns they'd even have the tar and torches ready to go. They were being led by a grizzled man wearing a reddish-gray fox pelt jacket. "You're gonna pay for spillin' blood, drifter! Don't try to run!" For a second she thought he was talking to her, but realized it was unlikely word of that had spread so quickly. Only one person had left before her after she entered the pub. Twenty minutes wasn't enough time for a rumor to get people armed with an axe to grind.

Nobody had told him anything, and suddenly they were saying he killed somebody. He had just stayed around for a few weeks, nothing more. And even then he camped out of the village. Walter had never ran into anyone while hunting. He would have picked up their scent long before he saw them. Normally he wasn't one to back down from defending himself, but something about the armed mob had him stiff like a cornered rabbit. He had heard the horror stories of what happened when people thought you were a sorcerer, or even worse…what they considered 'inhuman'. Sparrowhawk had to steer clear of this region in his travels, and had warned him plenty on the dangers of fear in the hearts of men. Even the old druid felt this place wasn't safe for someone who practiced forbearance and peaceful cohabitation. The hate and fear was even worse with the old wives' tales so prevalent in these rural areas. Not all shapeshifters could turn others, and not every one could take on a hybrid form. His father couldn't, and the same went for him. Even with the superior senses his beast form possessed, he was at a disadvantage if faced with an angry crowd. The best he could do was run–and hope he could create enough distance before somebody picked up a bow.

In the sea of faces he saw one that looked familiar. There was one of the men who he'd seen frequently around the trading post. He had a grey fox pelt trimming his coat, and he was one of the other trappers who were bringing in skins and pelts as well. From eavesdropping between visits, Walter knew his name to be Trent. He was surly man with a short temper, and naturally the shifter stayed clear of him. He also remembered how Trent always smelled like a dog, so he guessed the man used or raised hounds. "I didn't spill anybody's blood. If you're looking for someone, you've got the wrong man." Trent stepped out and pointed with a skinning knife he carried on his belt. "We all know it was you. Nobody else came around Whiterock before Abe went missing but you! I oughta give you a new scar down that mug of yours for that." Walter could see that seething rage in the man's eyes, full of hate and disgust. He didn't even know who this 'Abe Malley' was.

"Who's Abe, and how do you know he killed him?" A young voice came from behind, and a quick glance showed it was the boy who'd sent that man in the pub crawling like a worm. Seeing somebody without even their first flecks of stubble aim like that was downright brutal, and he wasn't sure if having him join in would make things better or worse. A slight chill went down his neck thinking about it. "Trent's brother runs the tannery around these parts, ain't that right?" One of the old farmers spoke up. Trent gave a nod. "And last night, he was out later than usual. Didn't come back even past supper, so I went out to look for him. And whaddya know…I come by Knob's Bend and find him face up in the mud–torn up in places all over. Looked like a beast had gone through him like a fresh wad of chaw." The man then shot him another hateful look. Walter was sure Trent was convinced he'd killed his brother.

"That doesn't make any sense. So you just found him by himself? That sounds like he ran into a rabid animal. What does that have to do with anything?" The young man replied, his voice skeptical. "Oh it does boy, it has everything to do with it. Isn't that right, drifter?" Trent grinned, a nasty gleam in his eye. He had been waiting for someone to ask, and had already planned on pinning it on him from the start. "So you think he's just some regular ol' hunter bringing in pelts every month? Ever wonder why he never stays in the village?" Murmurs went through the crowd and folks looked at each other. "It's 'cause he ain't a man–he's one of them monsters. A werewolf!" At once the people were in an uproar, shouting death threats in outrage. Walter had never been so scared in all his life, not even as a boy. He could see it in their eyes–they all wanted him dead. It didn't matter if they were right or wrong–if they thought you were a werewolf, they'd make it so there wouldn't be a body left to bury.

The village folk were gasping in shock and surprise, but she didn't bat an eye. At this point she already had a good idea on who the suspect was, but she needed a little information to convince everyone else. The man who had been cornered in the tavern was looking like he wanted to run, but she couldn't let that happen. If he did, then it'd just prove that smug hunter's point. "So what if he's a werewolf? You still haven't proved anything." Leaning back she crossed her arms and gave the deceased's brother a condescending look. This entire plan would have to hinge on getting him to spill what he knew, and she knew how to make people mad. The smug-faced man's smirk turned to a scowl, and he was turning red. "You callin' me a liar?!" "Yeah, I am. Unless you can prove it. How did your brother die anyway?" This was perfect. When a person was angry, they wouldn't be thinking clearly. And when they weren't thinking clearly, they'd stick to what they believed strongly. They'd be so caught up in their emotions that they wouldn't have time to think up clever words and keep things simple. If they were lying, it'd make things obvious. If they were telling the truth, they'd blurt it out. As long as he kept taking the bait, she could drag anything out of him.

"Didn't I tell you? I found him face up bleeding and torn up. The rain was pouring down, and the wastrel who did it left my brother Abe out there in the mud!" He shouted. The other villagers agreed, nodding and murmuring. "Alright, so what did you do when you found him?" She asked next. "I couldn't believe my eyes, and I looked to see if I could find who gutted him. Then I ran back and called up Caleb Harding from the general store to get a wagon to bring him back into town." Trent Malley spat in the dirt, and gave her a nasty glare. "You got a problem with that, city boy?" She gave a pause before shaking her head. "No, not yet anyway. Did you all see the body with those wounds as he said?" The rabble gave varying responses, but in general they agreed. "Whoever ran through Abe oughta be hanged by his ankles and left to the birds. Ain't that right?" The hunter rallied the village folk again, still hellbent on getting his way. Shiloh had to cover her mouth with her hand and look down to hide a grin creeping onto her face. She'd give him what he wanted alright…after she was through with him. This would be fun.

"…Let's not get too hasty. Are you really sure you want to start burning the bridge before you even cross? So you–" She snapped her fingers trying to recall his name. "His name's Trent Malley!" An old farmer with a pitchfork piped up. "–Yes, Trent Malley. You said you ran for help after you saw your brother lying in the mud right? Well I think that's strange. Why didn't you run over and see if he was still alive?" The hunter scoffed. "That's easy–'cause I saw him torn up so badly that anybody could tell." He was looking confident, but she didn't mind. She had to keep him fooled before it would all come together. Turning to the accused, she pulled out a dagger and began fidgeting with it. Pointing to him, she went on to ask: "Enough with Trent. What were you doing on that night when it was raining?" 

All this time he had been numbly standing around, so it almost spooked him when the young man called him again. "What were you doing on that night when it was raining?" It took him a moment to realize he was being spoken to. Swallowing, he recounted as much as he remembered from that night. The details weren't very vivid. After all it had been a normal evening as the rain came down. "That night I stopped tracking animals when I felt the rain come down, and holed up in the empty cabin there yonder. I don't have much else to say; I kept the fire going since I figured it'd be a cold one. By the time I thought of getting more supplies the rain was pouring, so I had to make do with whatever was left. No point in waiting around after eating, so I slept early." The people didn't like the sound of what he said. The way they were eyeing him was like they caught him lying. "So you didn't leave the cabin after it started raining, right?" The stranger repeated, looking to see if he had his facts straight.

He gave a nod. "Yes. I didn't want to be out in the rain, so I stayed in until morning." Scoffing was heard among the crowd, but the man wasn't done with his questions yet. "When you left the cabin the next day, did you see any tracks around where you were staying the night?" Walter didn't really get why he wanted to ask, but answered anyway. "No, didn't see anything. The animals probably ran off to hide from the rain too, and I'd doubt they'd stay near a cabin. They'd smell me out before they'd see the shack." The man crossed his arms again and muttered to himself. "Hm…good. Well Trent, he didn't leave–not as a man or a beast. Are you still going to insist that he's the man you're after?" Trent was scowling again. He must've thought he had it all in the bag when the young city-folk started asking. Now that he didn't get what he wanted, his face was getting redder by the minute. "Hah! He coulda just jumped off the roof and went in the trees! Just 'cause there weren't any tracks doesn't mean anything!" 

"Wouldn't climbing trees and jumping from them be more difficult for travel than running on the ground? And how would he know where your brother was that night to begin with? Now that I think about it, why did you search for your brother in the woods when he was late? Your brother works in the village, so if he was working overtime he shouldn't be out there when night was falling." This young man refused to budge. He looked scrawnier than Malley, but he had a nasty look in his eye like a mad badger. But hearing all of this, Walter was starting to wonder himself. Why did Trent have it out for him? Why was he so dead-set on saying he took his brother's life? And for somebody who worked at a tannery, there wouldn't be many excuses for him to go out in the woods alone. He wouldn't have to collect pelts himself, and any work that needed more time could wait for tomorrow. Maybe this city drifter smelled something off about this whole mess from the get-go. 

Finally, she had been waiting for this moment. She had been drawing things out to get the attention of the crowd, leading them along. Now it was time to blow the cover off this whole thing, and hit them with the truth so hard that they wouldn't be able to enter denial. Leaning forward, she spoke. "You know what I think? I think somebody called Abe Malley out that night before he was murdered. It was probably something urgent, since he went there without saying a word to anybody. He got there first, and waited for someone to come. Soon it got dark, and then he was attacked." The village folk were wide-eyed, listening to every word. Before anybody could interrupt, she continued talking. "The person who killed him then tore up his body to make it look like he was mauled to death. After that it started to rain, and then they went back to the village to ask for help saying they found him dead in the woods." 

"Hold it right there city boy–what're you tryin' to say?!" Trent bellowed, his entire face a tint of deep pink. She fired back without missing a beat: "I'm saying you're the one who killed your brother–you and nobody else! Everything you've said shows that out of everybody here, you'd be in the best position to pull it off. Nobody would think you'd lay a hand on your own brother, so naturally it'd be easy to point fingers at somebody else. You're an experienced trapper, and have knowledge of the nearby forest as well as the habits of wild animals. For somebody who hunts for pelts for a living, imitating the wounds from an animal attack wouldn't be difficult!" The lynch mob was shocked silent. She knew they didn't want to believe it, but she'd hammer it in until every last shred of doubt was gone. "Trent was the first one to find the body in the woods, and immediately knew that Abe was dead. If you just stumbled upon a bloodied body of your brother in the woods that was still fresh, your first reaction should be to check if he was still alive! Also instead of trying to carry the body back right away, he ran to get a wagon. I bet that was because he didn't want to make himself look suspicious and get any blood on him. Most people in that situation wouldn't think twice about carrying them back to town out of the initial shock."

"Well? Don't you have something to say?" It was working. The people were confused, murmuring and looking uncertain. Werewolf or no werewolf, this was enough to completely divert their attention for the time being. Small villages like these were close-knit, and everybody knew everyone. Scandals like these would shake the community to its core, and this was exactly the reaction she had been anticipating."It can't be, why'd Trent ever do that to Abe?" "Abe said he had some business to attend to later when it was closing time. To think that he really…" "I knew they sometimes argued over the tannery, but would he really go that far?" 

"Are you sheep just gonna to let that smooth-talking city bloke convince you with whatever comes outta his mouth?" The hunter shouted. "He's spitting on me and my brother's names when he's not even six feet in the dirt!" She glared at him as her face turned to scowl. "Oh so now you're going to get all upset about your brother? You didn't seem mad when you were blaming this man over here. You were probably pretty happy that you found somebody to pin it on and thought you could get away with it.." A man with balding hair and glasses stepped out from the crowd and grabbed Trent by the collar. "Trent, what really happened that night? Is that why you pounded on my door and told me to get my wagon?" Shouts of indignation came from the mob as they started to turn in a new direction.

"Hey Trent, weren't you the one who said whoever killed your brother ought to be 'hanged by his ankles and left to the birds'?" Fear briefly flashed through his eyes as she repeated the words he had said at the very beginning. The enraged rabble swarmed the hunter, and dragged him off deeper into town. When the noise died down, it was just the two of them out on the covered porch of the pub. The gray storm clouds were back again, and a light drizzle started coming down.

Everything had happened so fast; Walter was left speechless as the angry throng of people turned away. He still couldn't believe it. Letting go of his breath, he leaned against the wall as it all sunk in. All this time he unknowingly had been holding his breath, afraid to even breathe. It was all thanks to that young man over there. If it weren't for him, the trapper was sure he'd be hanged. There was a long silence as the rain quietly pattered against the eaves. Both of them didn't say anything for a while, until Walter decided to break the ice. 

"…I can't believe it. Here I thought I was a goner." Looking at the ground, he turned to the man. "I can't thank you enough for what you did for me. I tried telling them, but nobody would listen…even though it was the truth. I don't think I've ever felt so hopeless, and helpless. But there's one thing I don't get. Why'd you help me? You could've just looked the other way." The traveler uncrossed his arms and stared out at the rain falling onto the dirt road. He took his time in answering. "Accusing someone for a crime they did not commit, is something I will not tolerate." What Walter heard in his voice wasn't sympathy, but the tone of someone who had personally been in the same place. Now he understood his reason, and why he wasn't shaken at all when the village folk brandished pitchforks and torches. There was a stiffness in the air following his response. 

"Still, no matter your reasons–I'm grateful. Going out of your way to help a stranger like myself means a lot to me." Rubbing the back of his head, Walter tried to warm up the chilly atmosphere with some small talk. This was the first time they were talking directly, after meeting in the pub. "So, planning on staying long?" The young stranger gave a short reply back. "No. I meant to pick up a few things before hitting the road again." Leaning on the railing of the porch overhang, he motioned down the muddy thoroughfare. "You should be able to find whatever you might need down at the general store at Wahl Street. It's a small village, you can't miss it." "I'll keep that in mind." The stranger said with a nod. Not much of a talker, was he? Compared to how vocal he was before, now he seemed more listless and empty. It was hard to put into words, but that was the best way Walter could describe it. You'd never be able to tell that moments ago, this somber face was smooth-talking a group of angry farmers out of tanning his hide. It was like he'd been a completely different person.

The rain let up again, and they both looked up as the last of the rain clouds drifted off to the north. The young man stretched out his hand to see if the downpour was over, and tucked a dagger into his boot, preparing to leave. Walter was considering packing up and moving on himself after barely making it out alive. He'd have to avoid this area from now on, as per his mentor's warnings. Before heading off, the man returned and pulled out something from his clothes. "Here…" It was a simple necklace made from a thin chain and a piece of stamped metal. Walter took it, and tried to get a better look at what that strange shape in the metal was. He'd never seen something like this before. "Thanks, but what's this for?" The stranger explained with as few words as he could. "Think of it as a parting gift. If you're looking for work, find a stone with a matching symbol and you'll find me. Then we can call it even."