"Grandpa Skeleton!"
Mogena abruptly turned around, shouting hoarsely: "We can't hold out until the moon rises! Those Blood Axe bastards will flatten this place, erasing the name of Black Fang from the tundra!"
From the shadows, a hunched figure slowly emerged, leaning on a staff.
The Withered Bone Shaman, the oldest and most mysterious presence in the tribe. He wore a heavy ritual robe adorned with unknown black feathers and dried beast bones, his exposed skin resembling the bark of a dead tree, crisscrossed with furrows.
Only those deep-set eyes burned with a cold, phosphorescent green light like will-o'-the-wisps.
"Erase?"
The Withered Bone Shaman's voice was hoarse, like rough stones grinding, deep and unnerving. He walked toward the edge of the lookout tower, the beast eyes inlaid at the top of his bone staff gazing at the battlefield with greedy desire.
He continued, "Ignorant child, Black Fang's roots are embedded in the spines of our ancestors, not so easily uprooted."
