Greymoss was not Thornfield.
Krug understood this within ten seconds of arriving. The Beastmen who met him at the settlement's outer ring — a perimeter of sharpened logs driven into the earth at thirty-degree angles, forming a barrier that discouraged approach without fully blocking it — were not hungry. They were not desperate. They were not waiting for a god to save them.
They were armed.
Three of them. Two males and a female. The males carried axes — crude iron, poorly balanced, but maintained with the attentiveness of people who knew their weapons were the difference between living and not. The female had a short bow with three arrows nocked loosely in her draw hand. All three wore hides. All three had the lean, scarred look of people who fought regularly and expected to fight again soon.
"Turn around," the tallest male said. No greeting. No question. A directive.
