RP:Fuzzy Wuzzy Wasn't Fuzzy, Was He?

From HollowWiki

Part of the Something Wicked Arc


Summary: Orikahn stumbles upon Encara in the woods west of Frostmaw. Encara had been tracking a large bear, and she now comes upon a strange sight: a small clearing where bear tracks go in, but a giant's footprints lead out. The two follow the footprints, but trouble meets them along the way. In the end, the hunters have to recoup at the lodge, where Aira greets them with fresh game and, naturally, questions.

Into the Woods

After a brief night's rest, Encara had returned to the scene of her last encounter with the great bear as soon as her leg was able to bear her weight. A slight ache remains, a twinge in twisted muscle that makes her grimace occasionally with discomfort, but it's manageable - she's not about to let a sprained ankle slow her down. Her goal on this day is not to engage with the beast directly, but to find its lair, so she's following its tracks from the last place she saw it. Rather than chase after her and Oline, the bear had turned west instead, moving further from the City of War and deeper into the frozen taiga - now, Encara is its shadow, tracing the massive impressions left behind in the snow, the clumps of matted brown fur caught in low-hanging branches, and the lingering scent of blood in the air. Hooded and cloaked with bladed bow slung over her back, the ranger stalks in silence through the trees before coming to an abrupt stop as the tracks suddenly… end. The snow around has been churned into a near nonsensical mess, as though the beast found itself in another fight, and Encara spends a few seconds staring at the ground in bemusement before a metal glint catches her eye. She crouches to inspect the object but blinks upon recognising the bloodied blade - the dagger she drove into the bear's back last night.


Orikahn follows his nose. Well rested and well fed, the massive sabercat is out following his nose today, and what a bouquet there is! A myriad of delightfully peculiar scents hang upon the air today, and blood is one among them. Clad in arctic wolf furs and draped with his trusty white-woolen cloak, Kahn slinks from tree to tree, drift to drift, weaving his way gradually closer to the epicenter, the origin of these fascinating scents. Pray, what's this? With a burst of snow and pine needles, the three-eyed monstrosity breaks into the small, haphazardly trampled clearing to face Encara. The feline himself is a rather massive creature, three hundred pounds of lean muscle underneath all that fur and gear; he's outfitted for a sturdy hike, and there's a bow of his own, sans blades, hung over his back. Beneath the shade of his hood, the creature's eyes widen in perplexity... then narrow in suspicion. "What are you doing out here?" The profound bass of his voice lands dead upon the snowy woods like a lead weight.


Encara is only given a few sparse moments to scrutinise her dagger, the muddled mess at her feet, and the implications of it all before coming to the realisation that she is not alone out here. When the huge feline bursts down out of the branches, he'll find that dagger hurtling towards his head— only to whistle past in a close shave with one fluffy ear to embed itself in the trunk of the tree behind him. That's a warning, if any. Snarling low, breath misting hot from her lips, Encara skips back to put a couple more paces between them for good measure, doing a fine job of masking the pain in her leg. One hand reaches in preparation to pull an arrow from the quiver at her hip while the other goes for her bow, but the androgynous ranger does not quite draw the weapon just yet. "-Don't- try that again." Her voice is as indeterminable as her features; deep and coarse enough to fit a male while carrying just enough femininity that it wouldn't sound out of place on a woman, either. Her face is the same, framed by long silver hair and sporting the elegant cheekbones and overall structure typical of the elven races, though she stands quite a bit taller than average. Despite being of mixed ancestry, the ranger appears to be full drow, if a touch paler than most of her kin - eyes of a deep ruby hue bore into the strange feline like knives, almost daring him to make a move, before Encara answers his question with a curt, "Hunting. Obviously."


Orikahn jerks his head to one side and drops his crouch lower, flashing his fangs in a counter-warning. Not that his saberfangs weren't flashing already, what with the things being a handspan each in length there's just no putting them away. "I've license to be here," the saber cat fires back, "and license to deal with poachers." He opens a pawlike hand to reveal a tuft of bloody hair--hair that Encara will likely recognize. "If there's an unusual creature in these woods, the queen will need to know." After tossing the bit of fur between them, the cat sniffs the pad of his palm, licks it. "But you don't look like someone with anything to hide." His third eye seems to widen ominously. "Why don't you tell Old Kahn what you're hunting."


"I'm no poacher, cat," Encara hisses, anger sharpening her voice. Her gaze remains fixed on the feline's own as if engaging him in some silent battle of who'll blink first, and she watches carefully for any signs of attack. Those long fangs are not a surprising sight - Encara's mother was quite fond of hunting such creatures for their pelts and magnificent teeth so she could display them on the walls of their House. "Hunter. Mercenary, sometimes." The hair in the other's palm is glanced at before her eyes flick back to Orikahn, warning, then after a long moment, drop back to the fur. With catlike grace the drow slinks forward, low to the ground, and plucks the matted hair out of the snow to inspect properly, nose wrinkling at the fetid stench of old blood. But it's the same blood she hunts, that much is certain. "…A great bear," she replies slowly, wary as she straightens back upright. "At least, that's what I thought until I saw this." Gesturing to the trampled snow between them, a mix of huge animal prints and large humanoid feet, Encara takes another moment to scrutinise the tracks herself before meeting the feline's gaze once again. "Now I'm not so sure it's that simple," she admits.


Orikahn pulls back his hood to let his ears stand upright, listening intently, his thick, sleek black-and-coffee fur stirring gently in the chilly breeze. He ought to be studying the footprints around them, but his eyes sweep along Encara's bow once more, silently noting the blades. "But now you're not sure?" He scratches under his chin, thoughtfully. "Sky spirits are stirring," he grumbles, glancing up toward the blinding overcast above, "and the wind could pick up." On cue, an eddy of drifting snow spirals around their feet, dulling the tracks' edges. "Do you think we can run it down by nightfall? Hmm?"


Encara sniffs at the air, coppery tang and bitter cold filling her lungs. "That dagger," she says with a motion to the one she threw at the feline, "…I buried it in the beast's back yesterday. It shouldn't be here. And something about this… it isn't right." A frown crosses the ranger's dark features as she circles the disturbed patch of snow, determined to figure out the puzzle before the inclement weather whisks all trace of it away. With the wind catching on her cloak and snowflakes whirling round her ankles like playful children, Encara tilts her head slightly to one side, then blinks and moves past Orikahn to inspect the fainter line of footprints tracking out from the clearing - a single set of humanoid prints that lead away into the forest. Past this point, there are no more bear tracks to be found. Encara looks back at the feline, brow furrowed. "I wounded it before. It should be limping, slow, but there's no evidence of an injury in the prints." An oblique answer to his final words.


Orikahn double takes, his attention flickering between the line of bear tracks leading in and the line of footprints leading out. His maw wrinkles. "Someone very large caught your bear," he tiptoes after Encara, offering his opinion as they go, "and carried it away from here. They pulled the dagger out and, ah, hmm," a line of doubt creases his expression, "stopped up the wound somehow… bound… burned the wound shut?" He sniffs again, probing for some note to confirm this impulse hypothesis. "Look, he's large enough to carry a bear," Orikahn presents his foot, holding it out next to one of the others for comparison. Kahn's no small creature himself, but he's dwarfed by the truly massive imprint. Above, in the high boughs of the pines, the wind stirs again, and the tick-a-pick of needles tinkers down, down, down through the quiet woods around them.


Encara is no huge fan of the cold but the swiftly darkening sky is a welcome sight for the light-sensitive drow, gathering clouds lessening the blinding glare of the landscape to more bearable levels while casting shifting shadows over the forest. The biting, icy wind and snowfall that come with it are less appreciated, but her layers of armour and her thick cloak are enough to keep her from feeling it too much. Yanking her dagger out of the tree when she passes, the ranger stores it back in the sheath at her lower back as she considers the feline's words. "But where did he come from? There were no footprints arriving except for the bear," she murmurs back with a thoughtful glance down at the imprint Orikahn's paused by. "Looks like a frost giant, at any rate. Don't know any humanoid bigger than that…" Hopping into one the dip of a huge footprint, Encara leaps from one to the next, landing with only a quiet crunch of snow and a rustle of cloak each time. Those are long, long strides… bigger than an ogre's, she thinks. The wind whispers around the hunters, stirring frozen leaves and icicles in the trees.


Orikahn snorts derisively at Encara's continued line of questions. "Pfah. Giants have their tricks, elf," he insists, "though," he rubs a bit of the frost away from his lips and nose, "magic isn't quite their way." Not usually, anyway, Kahn silently surmises, and he trots after her, galloping along to keep up with her agile hops. "Do you mean to kill it?" It's an honest question. If Kahn were to have his way, there are a *lot* of things he would kill, but, still, Encara might remember his cautionary words regarding the queen and poaching and so on. A sudden gust of wind catches his cloak, pulling it open briefly to reveal his belt, stuffed with stone tools and hung with, alas, a rattling string of humanoid skulls. If the drow knows her anatomy, she'll recognize those of her own kind among them. For the span of a second, the icy blast unfurls, carrying the sting of drifting snow. It dies abruptly as it came. Kahn pulls his hood back up, and his eyes seem to size up the drow. "How long have you been out in this, anyway?"


"I didn't smell any magic back there," Encara admits, though she doesn't bother to explain further. With her ankle starting to ache again, she slows her pace to a gentler, long-legged lope that carries her smoothly across the snow while putting less strain on her injury. At Orikahn's question, the ranger barks a short laugh that barely echoes, the sound muffled by the thickening grey haze around them. "Is that a question you even have to ask? I am drow - I will kill most things." A pointed glance over her shoulder suggests that even Orikahn is still a potential target. "The beast has killed hunters, woodsmen… their comrades are offering a reward for its head. While I don't have the -honour-," she snorts at that, mist trailing from her lips as she continues, "of speaking with queens, I would think she'd want this monster taken care of." Encara looks back once more at the feline as she speaks, as if searching for his agreement - her gaze catches on his belt, tracing over tools and macabre trophies, and her scarlet eyes narrow just a touch. Rather than anger or disgust, however, there's an almost impressed edge to Encara's expression before she turns away, ducking under a low branch as she follows the prints onto what appears to be a rough animal track through the forest. The tall half-drow pauses for a moment to study the path, then keeps jogging. "An hour or two," she adds to his final question.


Orikahn hums a low growl at the mention of it having killed woodsmen. He'd heard some commotion out toward the logging camp not too long ago, but word doesn't always travel quickly on the far frontier. "Honor or no, I'll have my reports to give. Hmph," he puffs a frosty huff and trudges onward, judiciously fingering the endmost knot of his bowstring. "Disagreeable darkling, you are." A bit of color is beginning to creep into the dull clouds above, the faint orange of impending dusk. "Don't let the frostbite nip your heels," he grumbles, hopefully below her threshold of hearing.


Encara chuckles, the sound not exactly pleasant. "If I was feeling disagreeable, cat, we'd already be trying to kill each other." Like most of their kind, drow humour is typically acerbic, twisted, and sometimes deadly - it can often be difficult for surface-dwellers to understand when a threat is meant as a joke… but perhaps those threats should always be treated with caution just the same. In either case, she hasn't turned on him yet and maybe that counts for something. As they move along the track, it doesn't take long for Encara to realise that the tangled, icicle-hung path and those large footprints are leading them down a gradual incline, drawing both rangers into a shallow, wooded valley where the trees cluster more thickly and the air between them is heavy, shadowed, and bitterly cold. Nor has it escaped her notice that they have picked up no trace of the bear in some time. "Not even a tuft of hair," she murmurs, more to herself than Orikahn, fingertips ghosting over leaves encrusted with glittering ice as she passes a thorny bush.


Orikahn rolls his shoulders and ties his cloak a little tighter against the deepening chill of evening. Reaching the incline, the feline takes the incline eagerly, not wishing to dawdle too long at the lip of the valley. Amid this wretched cold, his breath comes in great, white gouts with every panting puff. "Nor a drop of blood," Orikahn raspily concurs, and he coughs against the oppressive dryness. There's a quiet pop as he unstops a waterskin and takes a mouthful. If Encara's nose is keen, she'll know it's actually spiced liquor, and whether she knows what it is or not, he doesn't offer her any. There's a squeak as he corks it back shut, and a snap from up the ridge. This last has Orikahn's ears perking within his hood. Another snap sounds, but was it from the same spot on the valleyside? No, surely not. Kahn's glowing eyes glint reflectively as he turns to try and pinpoint the source, or sources, of the sounds. There's a crunch of snow, but the woods are dense, and was that a fleeting form between the trees? Some flicker of shadow? "Ho, darkling," Orikahn whispers over to Encara, and as if in answer, some gobbling sounds gibber through the woods, "your giant's led us through a den of ice trolls." Warty silhouettes slink hastily from shadow to shadow, hiding their numbers and circling tighter, tighter, tighter...


By the time the ground levels out again, the sky is a deep, burnt umber filled with roiling, rorschachian clouds, and darkness is beginning its rapid descent over the valley. Snow falls in silence, the only sound that of the wind and the noises of Encara's armour clicking lightly with each step she takes. She might've wondered what Orikahn's drink was, her nose scrunching a touch at the faint aroma of spices she can't identify, but she's not about to ask, though she does throw the feline a half-hearted glare when he fails to offer her the waterskin as well. Luckily she has her own, though it contains only stream water. At the snap of a twig from somewhere behind them, the drow comes to a sudden stop, freezing in place like a statue before dropping into a crouch - with the path surrounded by waist-high shrubbery, she's quite well camouflaged in the shadows. "Four… no, five?" she hisses back, scanning the forest, her gaze catching on a shifting, dark bulk to the left, a flicker of movement between those trees over there to the right. Even with her sharp eyes, it's difficult to tell. Though Encara spits a curse in her native tongue, there's a wild glint in her eyes at the prospect of getting into a fight that she can't quite disguise. Slipping her bow off her back, the ranger nocks an arrow and casts Orikahn an expectant look. "Think you can handle them, kitty?" She's just teasing… probably.


Orikahn readies up his bow and quiver, the latter made of a single fox pelt, the former a veritable beam of sturdy, smoked wood. Likewise, he knocks an arrow, now that he can do so without threatening an attack from his newfound companion. He won't dispute her count, for earnestly, he's had no luck trying to tally the monsters on his own. There's a glint in the darkness, and Kahn takes the shot, his bow twanging with a "tuuff" of rushing air. The arrow lands like a thundercrack, and there's a nauseating chorus of gibbering gobbles in reply. Did it strike its mark? In the dim and the chaos, it's hard to see the smattering of inky blood amid the dim, twilight shadows of the boughs. There's an icy "pthik!" and a spray of stinging sleet as a large snowball explodes against a nearby tree, followed by another "pthask!", and another. Kahn manages to dodge one, but in the course of evasion, dips his head right in the way of another. "Graaach!" The icy sting is momentarily blinding, as he turns to rub his eyes on his shoulder, the circle closes in. Five trolls indeed! Covered fleshy galls, twisted and gnarled with years of savage survival, these foul creatures have broken and regenerated time and time again, each time uglier than before. Now, their crooked claws reach through the dim, frosty air. Their wide jaws, filled with great round, gnashing, grinding teeth, snap voraciously, noisily as they pounce.


Encara takes careful aim, bowstring drawn back with the arrow's fletch just barely kissing her cheekbone. She waits, breath held and body pulled as taut as her bow, until the moment she spots movement in the shadows. Then the arrow flies, hitting its mark with a sound like shattering glass and followed by a second shot as the drow tries to track the beast's movement through the deepening half-light. A barrage of snowballs comes slinging through the trees in response to her and Orikahn's attacks, showering Encara in icy needles that prick and sting her cheeks and earn a growl from the ranger. With the noose swiftly tightening around them, she soon finds herself practically backed against the feline, their openings to escape growing narrower by the second. When one of the trolls launches itself at her with mouth open wide, ugly features twisting into an even uglier grimace, Encara brings up her bow in defence, grunting as the creature barrels into her and sends her sliding back in the snow, pushing her into Orikahn in the process. Her bow, however, remains locked firmly between its jaws and keeps her out of reach of its grasping claws - gripping the weapon with both hands, feral snarl on her lips, Encara gives it a sharp twist. The wicked blades embedded into each of the bow's limbs shred through the creature's hoary flesh, tearing the lower half of its jaw away as the troll coughs blackened blood and screams with agony.


Orikahn is just getting his eyes clear again when he feels Encara's shoulders bump into his back. There's no time to startle, no time to wonder if she's there to plunge a dagger in his ribs, no time to reflect or wonder, not with the trolls upon them. Kahn has time to grab one by the face, claws sinking cruelly into the warty hide before he flings the misshapen monster aside to bounce off a trunk. A roar follows, for another troll has landed a bite upon his shoulder, teeth clamping with sickening force against the wool of Kahn's hide cloak. The sabercat answers with a bite of his own, rearing wide to sink his outlandish fangs into the assailant's exposed neck, taking the foul trolls spine in his jaws. It gasps, jaws releasing, dark blood sputtering out in choked, desperate retching as its body flails, its eyes bug. Another bite clamps on Kahn's arm, and the last troll is eager for a taste of Encara's calf, if it can. They have had a cold winter already, these horrible humanoid beasts, and they fight with their lives. After all, they've committed to gambling their odds of survival on this meal, tonight.


Encara raises a leg to kick the troll she just 'defaced' in the chest, sending it stumbling away from her as her bow swipes through the air again for good measure. Another shot is quickly taken at the unsteady, disfigured creature, her arrow sinking deep into its exposed throat and prompting another rush of dark blood to gurgle up - it fountains out of the ragged hole in its face before the beast collapses to the ground with a nauseating, wet gasp. Just as the drow is about to turn, she feels ice-cold claws clamp around her injured ankle with bruising force, prompting a hiss that breaks into a bitten-off scream when the troll chomps down on the back of her calf. Broken, jagged teeth puncture far enough through the tough leather of her boot to draw fresh dark elf blood, but Encara is quick to retaliate even as her weakened leg buckles beneath her. In a flash she's dropped her bow and unsheathed her dagger - using the momentum of her own fall, the ranger drives the blade down into the monstrous beast's skull, right between its eyes. She lands hard in the snow, one leg tucked beneath her, the other still trapped in the dying troll's twitching mouth. The dagger is quickly wrenched free and flung at the horrid creature snapping at Orikahn's arm, sticking into its shoulder and opening it up for an easy finisher.


Orikahn doesn't need a second invitation. Encara's dagger is prompt enough, for the moment the troll's hide is pierced, its jaws release to bellow an inhuman shriek of pain, a shriek cut short. Putting his weight behind it, Orikahn slams the monster into the trunk of an adjacent tree, follows up with his elbow and shoulder for a horrible, sickening crunch, the sound of a collapsing rib-cage. Encara's dagger shoots out the troll's side with an audible "pop" and stream of blood to follow, shooting in a dark arc to paint a steaming puddle in the snow. Orikahn pants and affords himself a few seconds recovery, leaning there with the squirming corpse of the troll pinned between himself an the tree. He shoots the half-drow a glance over his shoulder, looks around to their fallen assailants. "They'll be putting themselves back together soon." Even as he says so, there some wet snapping off in the pine brush, right around where the troll Kahn flung by the face must have landed. The troll Encara defaced now lays on its side and gropes aimlessly in the snow for its lost jaw. Even the monster pinned against the tree somehow finds the strength to reach up and grab Kahn by the whiskers. "Yrah! HAARH." Kahn's face twists in pain and contempt. He bites the hand at the wrist, and it releases. "Gha." He spits out a mouthful of black blood, releases the beast to let it fall to the ground in a crumpled heap.


Encara snorts harshly. "Stubborn bastards," she growls back to Orikahn, right before the troll he's pinned finds enough strength to grab him. Cursing up a storm under her breath, the drow's quick to free her captured leg and climb to her feet, snatching her bow up from the ground before she moves to collect her dagger from the sticky pool of blood it's landed in. With a grimace, Encara wipes the black goop off on her cloak, casting a cursory look across at the feline as she does so. He looks intact, at least, though she thinks one of his whiskers is a bit bent now. "We should keep moving. I don't fancy being hunted by these creatures all night," she says while her gaze drops to the beast that bit her - frowning, the ranger delivers a sharp kick to its head, before she rests her boot firmly on top and leans over to inspect the injury it gave her. "Tch." It looks mostly superficial, boots thick enough to protect Encara from suffering a much deeper bite, but the unnatural cold spreading through her flesh around the site of the wound is cause for concern. A cold like that is as deadly as a poison - it can sneak up without warning, sap away at any warmth and strength you still hold onto. Encara swears again, softly.


Orikahn smacks his lips in disgust, looking quite dismayed. Trolls, it would appear, do not taste good. There's the squeak of a cork, and he takes another mouthful of grog, swishing it eagerly. He gargles, spits, delivers a swift kick to a nearby squirming body. "Are you fit?" Orikahn checks his own wounds, grogskin still in hand. There's a little blood staining his shoulder, some red to mingle with the black; this Kahn splashes with liquor, then lays his broad palm over the puncture to keep the cold from biting too deeply while the alcohol dries. "I can't speak for you," Orikahn makes a face, picks a chunk of troll out from his teeth with his tongue, spits it in the snow, "but I'd like a fire and some salmon. My lodge isn't far. We can dress our wounds and get back on the trail." He offers Encara the grog.


Encara has never found herself doing so badly in life that she'd consider eating troll, and judging by Orikahn's reaction to the taste, she's quietly glad of that. The cat gets a shrug as she straightens upright, sheathing her dagger but keeping the bow on hand, just in case. "I can walk. It's nothing." Having dealt with far worse wounds than this, Encara isn't about to let a little bite drag her down, even if she's beginning to shiver slightly as she turns her head to peer around the forest. Pointed ears twitch at the sounds of one of the ice trolls rustling around in the underbrush a short distance away. Her gaze flicks back to Orikahn when he speaks again. A lodge? Fancy. Encara thinks of her own 'home,' that small, strange dome of solid rock that sits in the forest as though placed there by the hand of some benevolent god; a shelter from the deadly elements, it'd saved her life when she first stumbled across it. "Sounds fantastic right now, actually. Lead the way." Accepting the grog with a faint nod, she takes a hearty swig before handing it back. The liquor's an unfamiliar blend, but it's got a fiery kick to it that's more than welcome right now - she'd pour some on her own wound, too, but it's a little more difficult to get to than Orikahn's shoulder bite.


Orikahn gives limbs a testing flex and, to his displeasure, finds them sorer than expected. Taking the granite tomahawk from his belt, Orikahn takes a couple minutes to buy a little "insurance" against any unwanted pursuit. Some! Hacking and gibbering later, Orikahn accepts back his grog, and the hike turns eastward to climb up out of this wickedly frigid valley and into the open, which is, alas, not much warmer accounting for the wind and the stinging drifts. Though grog may warm ones limbs against frostbite, all in all it will shorten one's cold-weather endurance, and it's a lucky thing that, as Kahn must sometimes reassure, it's "not much farther now." True to his word, there's soon a thin line of smoke against the twilit sky, a snaking scribble against the budding stars that leads down, down, down to the peak of a wooden lodge.


Hunter's Lodge

Encara lets Orikahn do the work - her eyes are on their surroundings, keeping watch in the twilight, although she does make a point of kicking that one troll again for good measure. With a last glance back at the animal track, the prints, and all her unanswered questions, the drow turns to follow the feline through the frozen trees. Working their way back out of the quiet, shadowed valley takes a bit of effort - Encara's leg protests against the steep climb, and she's clearly beginning to feel the cold more acutely than before, courtesy of the troll's bite and their exposed path along the ridge. She's soon bundled up under her hood again, arms crossed with hands stuffed up into her armpits for warmth. The sight of smoke trails in the sky, a hint of civilisation and the promise of a crackling fire, is a greater relief right now than Encara would like to admit, and the ranger eagerly follows Kahn down to the hunter's clearing. Ruby eyes survey the lodge's towering exterior with interest, but she can admire the surroundings later - Encara beelines straight for the entrance, pushing aside the heavy mammoth hide flap and ducking into the building. There's a harsh curse as the light hits her eyes, the fire momentarily blinding the light-sensitive drow.


Aira heaves with all her might, dragging the body of a small Frostmare she had shot behind her. Adrenaline and pride at her kill had made the first half of the journey seem easy, now her body ached and the trudging through the snow was enough to cause her to consider abandoning the corpse. That wasn’t Aira’s style though, so with grunts, profanity, and a mighty yank, the huntress manages to pull it into the vicinity of the lodge. Aira lets go of the rope and wipes a bead of sweat off her brow with the back of her hand as she exhales deeply; she was going to need Kahn’s help in order to hang the mare up in order to bleed and skin it to begin preparations for the meat to smoking. “Kahn, you home?” She calls out as she shoulders her way through the hide flap. “I got a mare! Took me more time to drag her here than—“ She falls silent as she takes in the scene before her. “What happened?” She asks, her vulpine tail swishing behind her as she pulls her bow from her back and discards it with her quiver near the entrance as she approaches the injured pair.


Orikahn lets out a sigh, giving quiet voice to his own relief at the sight of hearth and home. Ah, a wave of tension ebbs out of his shoulders at the sight of Aira and her mare. Before he'll bother speaking, he scratches the frosty condensate away from his muzzle and whiskers. "Got sidetracked," he admits. "Some blood in the woods, odd fur, and then this..." Orikahn indicates Encara, but the half-drow doesn't stick around for explanations, rushing away and leaving Kahn and Aira to the mare. "Hmph," in an unusually generous show of hospitality, Orikahn *tries* not to look annoyed. Naturally, he fails. "We have a visitor," the feline growls and throws a nod toward the lodge. "That one has some strange quarry out deeper in the wood, and we--hra!" A pained exclamation interrupts Kahn's story *again*. It's what he gets for reaching down to help with the mare. His broad hand clamps to his bloodied shoulder. "Let me warm up, and we'll get your game dressed."


Encara may be half-drow but she both looks and acts rather typical of her kind - she goes where she wants, when she wants, and rarely does she bother waiting for permission. After blinking a few times to clear the bright spots from her eyes, the androgynous drow moves around the edge of the room to take up a seat on the bench circling the outer wall, sinking down to sit with a gentle sigh. Shaking frost and stray snowflakes out of her hair as she pushes back her hood, Encara pulls her satchel onto her lap. A muffled thump outside has her pausing, hand slowly sliding behind her back to grip the hilt of that recently reacquired dagger in preparation for another fight— but what enters the lodge behind her isn't an ice troll, deformed almost beyond recognition or reason with brittle claws grasping for revenge. Encara takes in the sight before her - an elf sporting a peculiar set of russet ears and a fluffy tail to match. Encara doesn't much care about the latter, but the former is enough to make her scowl. Jaw twitching, she offers the woman an altogether unfriendly glare before ducking her head to resume rummaging through her satchel. The feline seems to know her, so she'll let Orikahn do the talking for now.


Aira arches her brow curiously as her copper eyes turn to watch the visitor head for the inside of the lodge, most likely for comfort and warmth. Concern for the feline wins out over annoyance as he cries out in pain and the huntress’s fingers are already tenderly pushing away his fur to examine the injury on his shoulder. “Come on, I’ll patch you up. The mare can wait.” As they walk she wrinkles her nose at the prime hunter. He was limping. She does her best to shoo the prime hunter inside and towards a seat as her gaze moves towards their guest, enough to catch that unfriendly glare. “I will shoot you,” Aira informs the half drow in the most nonchalant manner as if she were commenting on the weather. The guest could tend to their own injuries then. Aira goes to fetch some moss, the hunters go-to of medical supplies. “What got you?” She asks Kahn as her fingers move to probe his wound again, pressing the moss against the gash.


Orikahn will, this once, permit himself to be shooed, even if he can't quite keep himself from grumbling in the process. Once Aira has him inside and on a bench, Orikahn will give his shoulder a testing roll and "kss!" immediately regret it. The warmth of the fire really has him feeling the sting of the cold now as it ebbs out of his limbs. "Aira and I, we keep this lodge stocked. Always ready for big hunts. Big game," his brows raise expectantly as he peers down his muzzle at Encara. "Now tell us again, darkling, what's been happening out in these woods?" Though Orikahn had been tempted to relate the events himself, he knows the sacred storytelling ritual, and his heart is sure he'd be wrong to relate the details of they mysterious quarry. This is Encara's tale, and she has her right to tell it. Unfastening his cloak and jerkin, Orikahn gives Aira a little more room to work about dressing his cuts and bruises.


Encara's laugh is ice-sharp, coarse, and cold as the arctic winds she just escaped. Rather than take offense, however, the drow seems to find the threat amusing - considering her particular brand of dark humour, it probably isn't that surprising. After rifling through her pack for a small jar, she sets it aside and kicks off her boots, frowning at the points where the ice troll's teeth punctured the tough leather. Uncorking the pot's lid, Encara dabs a bit of the salve — a mixture of crushed firelily, white fyre herb, and various mosses — onto the back of her leg, teeth gritted to try and stifle the hiss of pain that escapes her. It stings like a bitch but the heat of the lily will do its job, cleansing that poisonous cold from the wound before it can take root. "Aira," she rolls the 'r,' "and 'Kahn'…" the ranger continues, tilting her head to regard the two and turning her body to face them properly. "Since names are being thrown around, mine is Encara Val'thyrion." Her eyes, reflecting the fire's amber flicker, bore into Orikahn's before the androgynous drow offers him a caustic shrug. "You saw the prints, cat— or the lack of them. There's more to this than I thought, I think." That's something that appears to annoy Encara, since she quickly scowls again. "Originally, I was tracking a great bear. Taller than a frost giant, built like a mountain - it's killed several local woodsmen, eaten them, left only the remains. Friends of the deceased want retribution, so I will bring them its head. I've fought it twice before; last time I wounded its leg, but there was no evidence of the injury in the tracks I followed today, and the dagger I'd left buried in its back had been torn out. There is more to this bear than meets the eye, I'd say."


Aira is annoyed to find her curiosity is piqued by Orikahn’s words, the fact that their person in their home has a tale to share about woods. The huntress gives a quiet huff as her ears flatten and her tail flicks in an agitated manner. Aira reaches for the wineskin at Orikahn’s hip, pulls the cork out with her teeth before taking a pull on it and offering it to the feline. She listens to Encara’s tale with her own scowl as dresses Kahn’s wound before crouching down to examine his leg. Instead of addressing the androgynous drown she looks up at the feline, as if needing his confirmation to believe it. “You saw the track?"


Orikahn takes a pull, and the spicy smell of grog floats over the bitter tinge of balm and the warm scent of smoke and embers. "Mph, grah." He wipes his muzzle and reaches to offer Encara the skin. Fire, liquor, and kind ministration are soon bringing the life back into his abused limbs. "I saw tracks. Bear prints. Giant prints, too. The darkling's suspicious, thinks something strange is afoot." Kahn's implication is clear. He expects a more natural explanation. "There were no giant tracks leading in, no bear tracks leading out." The claws of his feet splay suddenly, angrily as Aira manages to touch a very raw bruise, but the prime hunter grits his teeth and swallows his pain. There's scraping and swelling beneath the fur, some bloody abrasions but no real cuts. "I think that bear's already dead."


Encara takes the grogskin but grumbles, "If you call me darkling one more time, I'll skin you alive." She glares pointedly, but with little heat, then tips her head back to take a drink. The skin is retuned to its owner before Encara slides further along the bench to put some more space between herself and the other two - with her back against the pelt-covered wall, she allows her eyes to close for a moment and just focuses on the heat of the drink working its way through her body, soothing the ache in her worn muscles. Orikahn's thoughts earn a derisive snort from the drow, who cracks open a scarlet eye and glances across at him. "That was not the scene of a fight… not with that monster. If a giant had faced it, even if he won, there would have been more destruction. And someone would've collected the bounty." After a quiet, thoughtful pause, Encara gets carefully to her feet, grabbing her things, and moves across to dump them on the bench at the far side of the firepit - leaning her bladed bow against the wall and unclipping her quiver, she flops down too, curls on her side and pulls a thick wolfskin up over her body. Evidently she's decided to remain for the night. "Don't try anything stupid," the drow snaps. "Tomorrow, I'm finding answers."


Aira shoots Kahn a look when he hisses as she touches his leg. She seems satisfied, at least, that there are no major gashes there but she cleans the superficial wounds nonetheless. “You need to rest your leg,” she informs him. Despite the fact that she is quite dwarfed in size by the saber cat, her tone is no nonsense and it is more of a command than a suggestion. Soon the huntress takes a seat beside the feline and shifts her gaze from Encara to Orikahn and back to Encara. “You won’t be going anywhere fast on that leg either,” she informs her with a glare of her own. “When you both have healed enough to be able to track prey without limping and being noisy, we will -all- go.” Again, it doesn’t seem as if Aira is taking any argument on this and she stands to move back towards the hide flap. “Put up your leg,” she barks at Orikahn before disappearing outside to tend to her mare.


Encara might've thrown a particularly rude gesture in Aira's direction, but she isn't moving. Not tonight.