Through the early morning murk Keter noticed the guard battle against exhaustion, this ceasless war he was raging together with his fellow villagers. It told Keter the guards were pulling long hours, which meant they were short on hands. Seemed the greenskins had been an issue for some time here.

By the way he held his spear, loosely in his right hand, Keter had decided to aproach him from his left, where his weaker eye was less likely to spot him through the rain. And for all the hours he'd stood there, he had yet to lean on his right leg once. Moved around it like a fowl that'd just found his footing and yet had to learn how to walk a trot. Likely a fresh wound, recently stitched, prevented him from moving freely.

Deduction was key, as was preperation. Grog jecher would greet the man with two others, and if Ohm's guard was going to try anything funny, Keter'd lunge from the thicket and end him. Real quick like. The village would be considered compromised, and the group would return to Hollow's to replan their next course of action.

Keter sqeezed his eyes into slits, peering through the endless downpour. The water was gliding down ferns and branches in big fat drops, hitting Keter's nose with a steady tap, tap, tap as he laid flat against the mud and roots of the forest's drenched floor.

There was movement beyond the underbrush, a faint rustling before Grog appeared from the green shadows, the dark patches. He was looking as fierce as he could, which was mean enough considering he'd spent the past week marching, and hard at that.

Two hunters flanked him, spears in hand but held just this side of casually. Not at the ready, but not quite unprepared either. Their steady gaze blurred through the dirty fog - humid and clinging. Keter pulled himself to his haunches, his muscles warming with the movement.

It took another moment for the guard to pick the intruders apart from the sodden trees and droopy shrubs, then he flinched as if burning his hand on a hot pan. Staggering, he leveled his spear at the group of three, his lips pulled into a growl; teeth bared.

Grog raised his bare hands, his shoulders drooping in what could almost be considered a friendly silhouette, somewhat ruined by his grizzly visage. His mouth opened to speak, no doubt words of peace as Keter had ordered him, but the guard didn't leave him the chance. His head whipped back, jaws wide and a warning scream building in his throat. Keter was on him before the first note left his cracked lips.

He sprang from the thicket like a viper, leg hooking behind the man's knee, then rolled and dragged him into the mud; chin crunching into the grit. The Maker's arms wrapped around his neck before he could recover from the surprise and all that left him was a squeaking whimper - cut short as Keter worked his obliques and pivoted.

There was some spit and drizzle as the guard struggled for breath. But Keter's grip was like a steel trap and left him no mercy.

“Listen here, little man,” The Maker's voice rang like a blade on rock, “you won't die yet, so leave the cries for a more deserving time. We want to talk. If you do not, well...,” Keter tasted the guard's sweat as he hugged him tight. Close as family. Close as a lover, “Then you will never cry again. Stop kicking if you understand.”

A moment's hesitation, then he felt the man relaxing and the fight left his eyes, though desperation lingered yet. That was fine with Keter. He'd learned that even a little fear was a great motivator in man. Slowly he let his hold slack, but only when Grog was before them, his fellow hunters ready to lurch into action at the first sign of conflict. They knew the Master wanted to keep this quiet. If the guard had called alarm, explaining – talk at all – would become real strenuous, and too annoying for Keter by far. The grasp of his patience tended not to reach to talk.

“Now,” Keter raised from the ground, his clothing caked in mud, “I have some questions. Naturally, you will answer them promptly. Yes?” The guard nodded uncertainly. His eyes flitted left and right like a cornered animal's. He rubbed at his throat, swallowing.

“Yes,” he answered, voice hoarse and sounding strained. Understandable since he just had his windpipe squeezed shut.

“Good,” Keter looked over his shoulder, at the village in the distance, “did people from another tribe arrive in Ohm some days past?” The more he understood the situation, the greater the accuracy of his decisions would be later. Knowledge was a weapon, and a weapon cast aside could be used against you easily. The guard blinked, just then noticing Keter's peculiar appearance. It only upset him more.

“Yes. Two men. Wounded. Twelve days ago.” His words came in hurried clusters.

“Just two!? He lies! I've sent seven men!” Grog snarled at the man, kneeling in the dirt.

“Then they died.” Keter responded monotone. The Elder hunter spun to him, eyes wide and nostrils flaring. A silent scream of hurt. But all he could do was hiss into the rain; spit flying and fists bunching.

Hollow's people were few, and the Hunter's bode only fewer. The loss of those men was a gut punch even for a hardened man like Grog. He'd known them like friends, like family. To Keter their death was just an another complication. Just a number to be crunched; a piece to be added in his vision.

The Maker left Grog to his silent outcry. “How long have you been attacked by those things?”

The man glanced uncertainly at the Elder hunter, but answered the instant Keter's eyes narrowed “The Kah first showed a Moon past, at the rising of Sihn,” he paused, looking down guiltily. “No. Some children spotted a stray one even before that. But we thought they were seeing shadows. After all... They never came this early.” His voice broke at the end. “They took two hunters then, and my daughter quickly after.”

They were fools. It was the first thing Keter realized. Ohm had let these things roam free for over a month, allowing them to entrench themselves and taking away the main advantage these people had: their knowledge of the terrain. Keter swallowed his distaste at the tactical waste.

“You will lead us to your little village, and introduce us to your Elders. I don't want secret gestures or signs that will send the hounds on us, you hear?” He let some magic spill from his gut and the rain started vaporizing on his skin, tapping down with menacing hisses.

The man turned round-eyed, mouth scrunching up in animal fear. “Who are you?” His voice a whimper.

Grog looked down at the guard, feeling some pity for him, and understanding. “He's the Master Maker.” Hardeye and Quickshot lifted the guard from his knees. He didn't seem to understand. “What's your name?” Grog asked.

“I'm named Wicker, sir.”

“Well, Wicker, He's a God, a force. For your people he will be salvation. For the Kah...” The Elder hunter's face was overtaken by shadow. “He will be death.”

…

Virrah's boots quickly became capped in filth. The ceaseless downpour and passing of men had made the mire almost calf deep at some parts of the snaking roads. She heard the Shaman's acolyte behind her; panting, struggling. Seemed he wasn't getting enough exercise while being cooped up in his musky tabernacle. Still, she had to admit being out of breath, too. Following Lowroot and Highbriar's hurried pace. Haste was seldom a thing to be desired. She wanted to get her thoughts in order before being confronted with another dilemma. Thrown before judging eyes. Accusing words. She'd have to make do, and work the iron in her voice. The steel in her eyes. Or the fire in her hands.

…

The village of Ohm was settled within the hall of mountains, the crags packed with shacks, the rock pocketed with weeds. The rain-lashed stone shone bleakly in the gray light, water streaming down water-cut roads and dragging at the mud.

Eyes looked at them with suspicion and distrust. Abundant worry wrapping these people in stone-cold steel shackles, consigning them to depression and empty fear. How often had Keter observed gazes like these? For every of his raids, each brawl, any petty squabble he'd reveled in. Ignoring it all. it was only the mission that mattered. All their was in the world was Keter and his Task.

They passed another guard who looked set on stopping them, but checked himself once Wicker threw him a look. Instead he followed five paces back. There was a climb, the steps stitched with crumbling mortar and sharp gravel. Keter saw a large building rise from the rock beyond the hill. Chiseled from the gray slabs and black flint, white marble darkened by grime come seeping from the wall of rock reaching high just behind before swooping down at the flanks; cradling Ohm in arms of old stone.

The entrance was crudely hacked, old scars running in the slabs of rock like rusted wounds, lined with moss. The man sitting there looked to Keter like the result of trauma. An echo of the mountain's violent past. He reminded the Master of Grog, in a way. But where Hollow's Elder looked brawny, this one showed lean. Where Jecher was stoic, he was fluid. And as Grog was hardy, the Elder of ohm looked wicked.

A long smooth-rubbed spear with a sword-like edge was balanced along the thin pelt strewn on his pale shoulders; muscles running like steel wire. His bare chest and face was painted with both mud and dyes, dull blues splattered and blotched in a seemingly random tantrum. He sat on the cut steps in a way that made the raw stone look like a rightful throne.

Wicker stopped walking so Keter passed him, slowly nearing the delineated man. He paused seven paces away. Well out of reach of that nasty looking spear. Keter regarded him and their gaze met. The rain fell around him like a mantle.

“I'm Longfingers.” His voice bounced off the stone in an echo. “I'm this Village's Elder.” He nodded at Grog, “And you are Grog jecher, I believe.”

The hunter frowned. “I haven't met ya the last time I came here.” He remarked. “Where's Redhare?”

“Dead”

“Kah?”

“Me," his voice was unwavering, "a winter back. I came to Ohm, challenged him,” he stroked the shaft of his spear, dripping with wet, “won.”

“And that wakes you an Elder?” Grog shifted his weight, hand dangling near his axe's haft.

“As sure as anything,” Longfingers responded coolly. Though he was talking to Grog, his stare was bound to Keter. The gleam in his eyes like the points of daggers.

“But I care little for you,” he threw sideways at Grog, “I want to know about the strange one.”

Keter noticed a pair of eyes beyond the seclusions of the stone home's entrance. He carefully stepped to his right, away from the door's black maw.

“I am the Master Maker. I came as the proficies had foretold, from the earth's bowels, dark as my skin. I made magics beyond your understanding my own, and unmade the Herald with fire and lightning. Now I came here, so you, too, can bind your will to my guidance.”

Longfingers looked back at him wide-eyed, wet-eyed, mad-eyed. His lips stretched in a thin line before peeling off his teeth as he burst out in a fit of crow-like laughter. His abs were rolling with his flare of sudden joy. For whatever that was, Keter couldn't tell. He rose from the steps, stretching to his full height. He was unusually long-limbed, his ragged pants barely covering his calfs. He was tall. Huge. A head and a half taller than even Grog. Keter suddenly worried that those seven paces weren't far enough.

“You!” He cackled, “You aren't human at all, are you?”

Keter looked up at the man, at the wide grin that almost split his flat face in half. “I just told you, I'm not.”

“And I believe you!” He breathed, “I can smell it!” His flat nose flared like a hound's. “There's something about you! I know, like no other!” he rubbed at his wiry forearms, uncovered and webbed with white scars. “It makes my hairs stand on end. Not a thing that's happened since, well, that splitjaw destroyed my home and ate my people.” The low wind pulled at his cloak.

Keter was silent, and unsure. This man, Longfingers, wasn't right in the head. Trying to predict his next move would amount to nothing. The Maker drew forth a spark of magic from deep within him, watching the man's frame with caution. Reach didn't matter if your skull's cracked and cooked by a cloud of searing flame.

“I accept!” He hissed, suddenly – his eratic movement stopping. Keter blinked at that. Really, there was no tell to his plans, if he'd plans at all. “I was getting annoyed with these Kah anyway, might be better to get some help killing them. Right, Master Unmaker?” He planted the but of his spear on the stone with a dull clang, then turned unceremoniously before ducking under the building's entrance. “Come within, oh Master and humble guests from Hollow's Maw, into this abode of mine.” He disappeared, shadows swallowing him eagerly. His feet didn't make noise as he went beyond the light.

Grog shot the Master a glance. He was uncertain. Of many things. He no longer really knew where to put himself in the Maker's puzzle. Where his place was at all or what he should do; was expected to do. He'd been leading for so long...

He shrugged. Following was easier, Grog supposed. “Suppose he wants us to follow him inside.”

“I suppose,” the Maker responded calmly. That icy, unnatural calm. Yes, sometimes it's best to think no more, and simply follow.

The Master Maker entered the rock-carved house, and Grog pursued.

…

“What's this?” Arrived at the Hunter's abode, there was little sign of worry. No, the people even seemed to be celebrating. There were smiles. Awkward hugs. Virrah posed that perhaps the missing person wasn't much liked. Or no one was missing, and they just wanted to lure her there. Virrah slipped her hand within one of her pockets.

“What's going on here?” Jeb asked at her back.

“I don't know.” She whispered back.

A woman drew near, her gate smooth, a knife dangling at her waist. Virrah easily recognized Kesh, one of the few female hunters. The woman showed a small smile, a scar one her cheek stretching.

“There's no need for worry.” She said. The crowd behind her started dispersing, going back to their daily tasks and quests. “No need for suspicion, either. Even if that leer does suit you.” Kesh laughed.

Virrah flushed, the woman's friendly tone taking her off-guard. She cleared her throat awkwardly. “What's this about,” she demanded, but she failed to sound authoritative.

“He's returned, surprisingly.”

Virrah frowned. “Who? Who's returned?”

Kesh laughed, and Virrah didn't know she could've looked so beautiful; this hardened woman.

“Who you ask? Well, Beghard, of course. The hunter they thought missing.”

…

Inside, the dusty walls were lit by a sparse collection of candles, jammed in holes that seemed punched in the stone walls. The only warmth was a sorry tongue of flame, squirming meekly in a hearth blackened way past rescue.

Ohm's guards had either left or remained outside, Keter didn't know. Apart from the Maker and his gathering of three, only Longfingers and a young woman were inside. She was holding a bow in hand. Keter imagined it trained on him during his previous talk. It was an unwelcome thought.

“I'm sorry for the lack of commodities and snacks, but these Kah have been bleeding us dry, you see.” Now the situation had calmed some, and they were outside the reach of the infernal rains, Keter had time to notice that man's voice was strangely hollow sounding.

“That's alright. We can wait on that,” Keter tapped on the hide they were sat on. It was crudely stitched, half covered with patches of hair. And green. “I want to know about the Kah situation.”

Longfingers sighed, leaning back on the cold floor. His spear rolling away as he bumped against it. “Not much to tell that you haven't seen, no doubt. I bet those black eyes of yours are keen.”

“Amuse me.” That made Longfingers smile.

“Well, about a third of our people are dead. These things, these Kah, are a ferocious, driven lot. You can stab them, crush their bones, set them aflame... If they're breathing, you can be sure they'll be fighting.” His smile grew a little wider. “I quite like that about them.”

Really? Keter felt sick just by sitting on one's skin, his head swimming in untamed anger. His vision swarming with it. Flashes before his mind's eye of dying greenskins – that was something he liked. Keter frowned. Why though? That was perhaps the question that needed answering. His anger felt strange to him. He shook himself, and focused.

“How did it start?” Causation. If he could figure at least that out – he'd come a long way.

“The Kah? Perhaps just before Sihn rose to her throne...” There was that name again. Keter felt something stab in his brain. He was forgetting something. Or remembering something. He suddenly wished he'd asked Virrah more about the old legends. When he came back to Hollow's, it be the first thing he'd asked her. If she was even alive anymore, that is.

“And before that?” Keter pressed, “There must have been something. An irregularity doesn't happen for no reason.”

“There was a sighting, too. Children saw the Kah before the attacks begun. Wicker said they took two hunters.” Grog added from Keter's right.

“Ah, but I don't believe Kah took those men.” longfingers retorted.

“Why not?”

A pause as Ohm's Elder looked up at the ceiling that an army of spiders had laid claim to, a labyrinth of webs cast throughout. “It was too clean.”

“You mean?”

“It was too sudden, too quick. One moment they were gone. First one, then after a week another disappeared.”

Grog leaned forward. Keter, too, was intrigued. The pattern was perhaps a foretelling of Hollow's future. “During a hunt?” The Master asked curiously. There was a call beyond the home's seclusion, and the woman left to answer.

“The first one, yes. But not Grom. He came back after the kill, joined the village though he was sick for a time. Before healing, he was gone. Wiped from the mortal realm, not a trace left. That's when the Kah came, and the killing started.”

“You think something else is stalking these woods?” Keter heard some people enter. Grog's fingers lingered on his axe.

“Think?” Longfingers asked, his head cocked sideways the way a bird would. “I knew of it! I could smell it as sure as I can smell you! Something real mean-like. Though it didn't kill Gromyet, I smelled it on him, too.” The woman stood in the doorway, a hunched silhouette behind her.

“Ah, you're finally here.” Longfingers waved at the newcomer. “This is Ohm's owl, Master Unmaker. She's all that's left of the Elders.”

That caught Grog by suprise. “The others?”

The Owl smiled tiredly. “Kah,” she said it without ceremony. “The Village Elder and Shaman both died in the second week, when a swarm of Kah snaked their way inside Ohm,” Her eyes went hazy as she recalled the memory, “There was fire, and screaming, blood running down the cobbles,” She looked at Keter levelly. “Many died that night.”

Keter nodded. “First,” he looked at the bow wielding woman. “What's your name?”

“I have none.”

“You used to.” Longfingers remarked.

“That was before you killed my father,” she hissed, eyes red-shot.

“Ah, true enough,” Longfingers leered.

“Then I'll call you Bow,” Keter said simply, uncaring. “Bow, I want you to go with Wicker to where he was stationed and yell the words 'Happy Happy'. Men will come from the woods; my men. You'll do them no harm and lead them here.”

She scowled and looked at Longfingers.

“You heard the Master,” he smirked. Bow hissed again, turned with a curt spin and left with wide strides.

“She'll kill me one day,” Longfingers said dreamily. “Or she'll try, at least.” A breeze swept through them as Bow left the building.

“So, you're the Owl,” Keter said.

“Yes, though you mustn't compare me with Elder Silva. I am by far her lesser.”

Keter shrugged, “You know what made Grom sick? Was it some kind of venom? A poison?” An unknown creature skulking about, one that perhaps worked in tandem with the Kah was a wild-card Keter hadn't counted on.

“I don't think so,” she said, “though there was no real telling. I mean, no wounds, no laceration, no discoloration. He just seemed... timid, quiet. Confused, perhaps. Like he didn't really know what to do. He felt... Off. Not quite himself."

…

Virrah had set the man's leg now. It had been easy enough as far as broken bones went. Beghard was a tough one, even for a hunter. Virrah doubted that he'd even needed the local sedative. The shack's roof rattled with the sound of rain, the harsh wind coiling within.

“He should be fine now.” The Owl pupil announced, trying to keep the exhaustion from her voice. Kesh was treating his smaller wounds with a balm based off slickleaf, carefully dotting the surface.

“You sure scared us, there.” She said, setting the clay pot aside. “almost though you were gone like Bale.”

Beghard smiled at her. “No worries.”

“Still.” Kesh frowned. “You can never be sure of what lurks in the Green.”

“In that you're right.” Beghard agreed. His voice was a bit awkward, but that was most likely either the sedation, or the pain.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Kesh asked worridly, pressing the back of her hand to his head.

“Well, That's enough of that.” Virrah said, feeling tired just by looking at those two interacting. “If you notice any swelling, reddening, or other complications, limp on over to the Hospit or send someone else to get me. I'll come over the moment I can. If not, it'll be another one of the girls there.”

Kesh smiled at her. “Thank you.”

Beghard gave her a lopsided smile too. Perhaps she was a bit too generous with the sedation. The man seemed a bit off.