The Mourning Howl swayed gently above Penny's head as the group pressed forward. The odd creaking of bone ribs flexing beneath the black canopy gave the umbrella a strange, almost alive quality. No one said anything about it for a while. No one wanted to.
The Southern Hunting Grounds had grown darker as they moved deeper. The trees were taller now, towering overhead like ancient sentinels, and the light struggled to reach the mossy forest floor. The air smelled of damp bark and decay, and somewhere in the distance, a bird called out once before going eerily silent.
Leo led the group with deliberate steps, eyes sharp, ears twitching slightly with every shift in the wind. The earlier fight had energized him, but it also left him on edge. He had seen enough monster patrols to know that cavalry never traveled far from a camp.
They were close to something. Maybe the orc nest. Maybe something worse.
Greg was the first to break the quiet.
