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Fate had other plans as the morrow brought with it grave news from the east. Gray had stopped in town one last time before heading to the northern woods to purchase food. He didn't know how long he'd be out there, and wanted to make sure he was prepared for the long-haul, just in case. As he strolled from the general store, sack of goods slung over his shoulder, he caught sight of a group huddled in the middle of the road. They were standing around a figure, short of breath and doubled over, hands on his knees as he gasped for breath between scattered words. The traveler edged his way closer, avoiding too much attention while trying to catch the runner's voice.

"... -dead! ... Everyone! It was-" He shook his head. "No, couldn't have been!" He grasped at Jorg, the barkeep, who stood closest. "But it was!"

"Good gods, man, who was it?" The barkeep replied in a loud, terse whisper, eyes wide with anxiety.

"...HOWLERS!" Again, he shook his head, as if denying his own words. "I swear, it was! Come down from the mountains! They took Jonson, he was first, then his family! Then the Eriks', and the Cordens' and the Marths'! Now there's just me!" The man stilled, then seemed to collapse inward, as if crushed by the weight of the realization. "... Just me."

Jorg and his friends gathered the man up in their arms and carried him inside the tavern and out of sight of the traveler. The rest of the folk in town milled about in shock.

"Did you hear him? Howlers, he said. The tales are true!"

"Nah, couldn't be, those are just old tales, fun stories, that's all."

"Fool, those stories are true! My da saw one once, himself. I tell ya, Kempen is as good as gone if that boy weren't lying."

They went on and on, as folk will do, trying to make heads or tails of what shouldn't be possible, but is. Galen had heard enough, and took his leave, passing round the back of a chapel to rest near the little garden and water-pump nestled back there, setting himself on a small wooden bench pushed right up against the back wall of the church, dragging forth a tattered map from his pack and spreading it out over the top of his legs. _Kempen... There, to the east, a day away..._He glanced back to Tarrensford, etched in by the winding river, then to the forest north of it. The Howlers were not his task. The girl was, her and the spirit tangled all up inside her. A day there, however long it took to clear them out, then a day back. It was long enough in terms of his work, and the voices wouldn't approve of his side trip...

Gray looked up at the sky, a powder blue that seemed to cover the land like a cloth tent, with a sun the color of ripe wheat rising to take its place. It was still, but not. There were those little signs of life, a sharp chirp of a nearby bird, a cool, gentle breeze kissing at warm flesh, the distant rumble of the river as it cut its path through the land. A breathe, deep and pure, clean and fresh. Here was the scent of baking bread and rich soil, of wood bleached by the summer sun, of sweet water and of people. Places were people lived always smelled different. It wasn't just the stuff they build their homes and tools out of, it was something else. It was sweat, and blood, and tears, and laughter, and songs. The same smell would linger in Kempen, long after the people had died, slowly fading as the wilds took over. It would smell of ice, of cold, of death, before too long. Galen did not like those smells.

Those eyes of his opened, a color of smoke, a gray with the barest hint of blue, the sky mirrored against those orbs. Then, without another thought, he rolled his map up, tucked it away in his pack, shoulder his sack, and took the road east out of town.