The yard goes still around Druk. The route shard is in his hand, the north road lead hanging open before him.
Then he feels it, a low pressure in the air, like a storm pressing on stone. Druk turns.
Outside the stall bars, a huge black wolf stands half in shadow, his fur shimmering with a dark gloss. The dire beasts nearby lie quiet, ears pinned.
Zharhamma
I have been watching you, Druk. You use the dark arts, yet you do not slaughter the timid for sport, or chain men only because they are useful.
Zharhamma
You burn villages, but you let women and children flee. You let honorable men run. What calls to you, ogre?
The wolf’s eyes never leave Druk, ancient and hard, as the yard waits for his answer.
✓ Quest Accepted
Answer Zharhamma’s judgment
“I say, my religion is honorbond and mostly built on honor in battle. These lands here in this region are marked as holly lands of ogre, to feel the wind of battle”
FAILURE (Fair Willpower, rolled -1)
Druk
My path is honorbond, battle honored and measured. These lands are ogre land, meant to feel the wind of war.
Zharhamma
Honorbond. Hm. You name battle, but not mercy. You name land, but not stewardship.
The wolf’s head tilts a fraction, testing the words like meat between teeth. The shard in Druk’s fist catches the gray light, small and hard against his palm.
Zharhamma
You spare the weak when it costs nothing. You burn when it suits you. Tell me, ogre, is that law, or appetite?
The Crossbow Leader stays still at the edge of the yard, watching Druk more than the wolf. The Handler lowers his gaze, as if any answer might be judged too.
Zharhamma
He claims the mountain as birthright, yet he speaks like a chief who still chooses every cut.
Zharhamma’s ears angle forward, waiting. Around them, the calm beasts remain motionless, but the silence feels like a held blade.