The Huntsman could not but attempt to keep an awareness of the world around him as the Wolves attacked, keeping himself distant from the death of each man at his hand and the blood that he spilled, even as he tracked the movements of those under his command within the fray. The Gauls had expected nothing of them. Had thought they had owned the night and been protected by their fires, and for that he pitied them.
He had heard the whispers of the reputation of the Wolves on those rare forays into the camps of the Roman army, those rumors beyond the truth of their strange humanity to the ability of some of their number to change their shape with the moon. They were spoke of as ghosts, but equally as cowards, their stealth and their preference for the night seen as cowardice rather than prudence.
When the world fell silent and he stood in the aftermath, drawing a rag from a pocket to wipe his sword clean of the blood at its edge, he looked to his wolves and knew different.
He turned to see the sharpness of one man's features, that haunted expression that had him moving quiet but swift toward that Wolf to speak to him. "You are through?" he asked, watchful and calm as he sheathed his weapon.
no subject
He had heard the whispers of the reputation of the Wolves on those rare forays into the camps of the Roman army, those rumors beyond the truth of their strange humanity to the ability of some of their number to change their shape with the moon. They were spoke of as ghosts, but equally as cowards, their stealth and their preference for the night seen as cowardice rather than prudence.
When the world fell silent and he stood in the aftermath, drawing a rag from a pocket to wipe his sword clean of the blood at its edge, he looked to his wolves and knew different.
He turned to see the sharpness of one man's features, that haunted expression that had him moving quiet but swift toward that Wolf to speak to him. "You are through?" he asked, watchful and calm as he sheathed his weapon.