lawnmowerman

"Should have negotiated." A black scrawled parchment is sent towards Captain Ayche Raven’kor of the S.V Tailor. A crude drawing behind the paper, revealing their ship in the sickly state it was, its foundation letting out terror filled cries, evident by the fallen masts and shattered ballistae. Flames and black smoke licked at the sky, spiraling upwards to surround the deck and the masts that remain.

"Buy from this man." Samuel states throughout the streets of Felsen.

"I believe you need a license for owning parts of monsters, like stated within these laws!" Luka nods once to himself, pinning a prompt parchment on top of Kanrath's poster.

Luka would skim his orbs slowly over the notice, craning his head at Iat and Adeon, shaking his head rigidly, mumbling to himself, "Need entire navy to hunt this down."

The woods of Vanaheim were frigid. The land was blanketed by breezy snowflakes flowing down from the sky, rendering the hillsides and pinetrees in a layer of flawless white. The frozen branches of the trees steadily refracted the light of the late-afternoon sun, hueing the forest in a corona of sunlight and casting a soft glow across the surface of the nearby snow. A hunting party of six Marked Men stepped off of a Felsen cart and trod up a nearby hill. “Spread out - search for tracks”, muttered an elf, and the men dispersed. A call arose after fifteen minutes, and the party of men congregated atop a hill. A massive troll - their quarry - stood before the six of them, and the Marked Men set out to complete their work. An hour later, a headless troll would lay upon a hill in a large puddle of melted snow. The hair on its back would be burnt to a crisp - presumably by some eldritch means, both knees would be split with well-placed arrows, and several broken shafts would be buried deep within its flesh. It had not walked far, and no blood but the troll’s was evident upon the ground. Six pairs of heavy bootprints led back to the cart, and the cart’s tracks lead back towards Felsen.