Near the vicinity of the Druid's Satchel, children chased one another beneath the moonlight, a subtle glow covered the reach of verdant grass. Adults and older young congregated in small groups in cheerful discussions, ale, mead and wine filled to the brim of wooden mugs, spilling over the rim in their merriment. Laughter drowned out the sounds of nocturnal beasts in the distance. The ballad of owl and raven mingled with the sparse howling in the distance deep within the nighted glades. A number of mounted torches illuminated pathways and the main road. 

The greatest light, however, was outside the tavern and inn, as a large campfire roared upwards, casting red-orange radiance outwards, making shadows of those who sat and stood around it, reflecting off the side of Druid's Satchel. 

It was here, after yet another long journey through the dangers of the Shadewood, did the Lord of Ghouls sojourn.

His ebon robes billowed slightly as a westward wind made the embers parade and leaves flutter wildly. His iron mask glimmering in scarlet blaze. He pondered strange machinations into the cinders; whispers of dark dealings and macabre arts. Yet, his passion for oration and entertainment had begun to boil over. What was night such as this without amusement? Albeit, one riddled with a healthy amount of spine chilling. 

Thus, Bellighul stepped out from his perch on a further bench and drew closer to the fire. Maintaining his nature, suppressing the otherworldly aspects that he displayed as best of his ability. Yet, to the keen observer, shadows danced in tandem with his voice at his feet. His baritone speech was strong, laced with an exotic accent held by those of Zeinav; yet, his was curiously more archaic. 

"I bid you all welcome and a wonderful eventide. To silently gaze in flames is as old as memory indeed. Our forebears practiced this since the first of our kinds roamed these lands. Yet, equally as old, is the story...and whirling flames without a tale is a meal without wine. Fine enough on its own... though thoroughly lacking." 

He paused dramatically, peering around at his audience. Hands displayed openly as he continued. 

"Who here has heard the sounds in the night whilst resting and thought...'tis but a wolf and nothing more? Well, in my travels to this village, I have encountered cultures with stories older than the Renewal still. Beasts that walk upright by night and are your neighbor at dawn. Who hunger for the flesh of mortals but savor the hearts of the one's they once loved most....a tragic tale." 

A simple nod was his own reaction, cupping his dominant hand and and extending it closer to the fire's warmth.

"It all begins with the ancient raiders of the far North, the Old North...in the fjords of the World's Crown."

Thus, the pseudo-history of the werewolves of Charon had begun to be weaved by the Tomb King. 

Hylltywyll crept around in the shadows outside the tavern, avoiding the lights of the torches and campfires. He carried around an empty glass that was once a glass of ale he had stolen from a now confused tavern patron. Hylltywyll had taken one sip of the disgusting-tasting drink and gagged before tossing the liquid out, directly onto the face of an unconscious drunkard sleeping in the grass outside. The man woke up and groggily looked around for the perpetrator, but spotted no one. Hylltywyll stashed the empty glass in a bush to retrieve later. It would make a lovely addition to his collection of stolen trinkets he kept in his home in the Giant Mushroom Field.

Hylltywyll wandered around a bit more, looking for easy trinkets or snacks he could grab from the drunk and easily pickpocketed patrons until he heard a baritone voice with an exotic accent telling a story by the campfire. "This could be interesting" he thought to himself as he approached, finding a nice, dark spot underneath some bushes close enough to the fire for him to listen in.

---

Cloak of Shadows

Heian found himself in moonglade. He was walking wrong way the entire time, and with his leg still kind of unusable, he had to stay there for a while.

"Drink something. you'll feel better"

Wood as always playing a part of shoulder devil. But the idea wasn't all that bad. He slowly walked towards the nearby city.

3 hours later

And he was drunk in 3 asses again. With Wood drinking rarely ended in different way. With a glass filled with vodka he went outside, towards the biggest campfire. He had to cut himself off now, or he would faint and wake up with drawn moustaches or whatever they treated bodies with. Heian pretended to stagger, emptying the glass on the ground.

"Saw that. But fine no more drinking today. Only tomorrow to delay the hangover"

Greeeat.

He sat by the campfire, listening to a deep voice with accent more familiar than others. But all that alcohol already kicked in, making his vision blurry.

-I'll just sit there... ...I'll just sit there... go on goon

It was that time of the year, when the winds brought more than just cold, but also that otherwordly dread that crawled up one's spine. That unrest at the back of one's mind, enough to make people loose sleep over it, without even knowing why. While others locked themselves at home at nightfall, fearing the chilly winds would breath life into their nightmares, others relished in the drama and mood set by the season. The Witch of Moonveil was one of them.

She felt the night stirring with promise, even if the cold winds wouldn’t dare approach her. The village's folk were used to her dramatic appearance, raven feathers swiping around her delicate frame, casting dancing shadows full of life and a will of their own. And yet, deep down, her true nature always bared its fangs when the faintest scent of mystery and adventure was in the air: her curiosity would still be the end of her.

She made her way out of the tavern, a familiar voice reaching her ears, in a night she had thought to be a lonely one, with only wine and Mischief to make her company. The wine was in her hand, bottle and glass, and the raven Mischief could only be heard above, cawing happily with his latest find: an old, copper ring he held with in his claws. He landed on a bush nearby the bonfire to examine his jewel, apparently paying no mind to the general comotion and gathering around him.

Kamille let her hood down, her shining, black hair making a gorgeous pair with her feathery cape, whiplashing with the wind, making a smooth transition to her locks from her raven adornments. She smiled with her deep, cobalt eyes as she identified the storyteller gathering such curious people around the bonfire. The Tomb King certainly made for an excelent storyteller and orator for such ominous times and stories.

And so, like a moth attracted to the fire - or perhaps, like a raven attracted to their shinnies - she approached the bonfire, taking a seat among the townspeople, all too familiar with her dramatic flair.

As she sat down, an elegant gesture of the hand made her bottle of wine float in the air and carefully pour some of the scarlet liquid into her decorated glass. A drunk known around the village passed by, extending his own cup in a gesture of plead, and she gently obliged to share her wine with the man.

With the man gone, she turned her attention to the night's storyteller, with a curious glint of pleasure in the eyes. Glancing over the bonfire above her cup of wine, she blew softly, as if there was a candle in front of her she wanted to snuff out. Instead, it was the large bonfire far away that reacted, dancing and swirling at the King of Ghoul's words, giving him even more of a dramatic flair.

A familiar village came into view as the forest cleared. His travels had brought him here yet again. Even with his hood up, some of the villagers at the entrance recognized Ulrich. Greetings were exchanged, and he made his way further into the village.

The wind had been giving gentle wisps here and there. No surprise for the time of the year, but as he walked though the familiar village, a different wind gently blew through. It was a wind he was all too familiar with, as if it were whispers in his ears to bring his attentions to a certain object or situation. His cloak billowed towards a gathering of the village locals. He turned his gaze in their direction, curious to see what had grasped their attention.

As he could see, a lot of the people had seemed to congregate at one spot. A campfire danced in the night as the crowd gathered around. A man he'd never seen before had taken center stage, his voice captivating all who were present. He scanned the crowd and spotted some familiar faces.

A wall of a building near the campfire was close enough for him to hear. So he took a leaning position there, waiting for the man to continue his stories.

Ah, interesting. He's going to be giving us stories of werewolves. Something I've not heard for a long time.

Ulrich's hand rested upon his satchel. The situation before him piqued his interest enough that the thought of sketching had crossed his mind. Now with the knowledge that the mysterious man was going to be telling stories of werewolves, a page of notes were in order as well.