Sylfir had stayed just long enough in Wynn's Hold to witness Ralf's hanging. Seems he couldn't slip out of the noose this time. He met her eyes as she watched in the crowd, and she saw naught but pure hatred. She can't say she was sorry to see his neck snap the way it did. Quick and clean. It's more grace than he showed to any of his victims.

Now she heads east toward her new bounty. She looks at her map, eyeing the cross Skaris drew to mark Summerfall, then looks ahead as Bob carries her forward. They travel on the road sandwiched between the forest and a narrow river flowing westward where the summer flowers are in full bloom. She knows she's on the right track—this river winds all the way to the village according to her map, and the other minor landmarks she's spotted on her journey are in accordance with it, too.

The warm sun continues to rise in the east in front of her, inching toward the zenith in the late morning. It illuminates the gentle hills that play host to yet more summer flowers, boasting brilliant hues of purple, pink, and yellow. She puts her map away to enjoy the view as the river veers away from the forest, dipping and cutting into the landscape, meandering so much it threatens to cut off into an oxbow lake. A sigh leaves her lips as a gentle breeze picks up free strands of her long and wavy hair, though most of it is collected in a loose, long braid that tumbles down to her lower back. The last few inches of her hair form a loose curl that she plays with idly as they reach the base of the closest hill.

Bob heads for its low summit, and she feels a mote of anticipation. It should provide a fine view of Summerfall. She pets Bob's mane as he takes her there, and he sighs as his ears whip.

"We're almost there now," Sylfir says, scratching his shiny black coat. He snorts in reply.

He comes to the summit, and Sylfir takes in the view.

She frowns.

The sight that confronts her is so far from the beauty of the hill. Her eyes trace over the upturned earth around the rectangular house that sits by the road she now travels. It has boarded windows, and the red door cracked in the middle and almost split in half. The tracks leading to it originate from the village, and from the door, they spread in a haphazard pattern to the crop fields, carved through by something massive. It's like an owlbear has rampaged through it.

She surveys the area, sweeping from north to south. Most of the damage has been concentrated to the north of the region; the watermill by the river far to the south is undamaged, as are the buildings and orchards close to it, and she can be sure of it because the tracks don't extend that far.

Her squinting gaze returns to the village beyond the rectangular house, trying to make out the finer details, but she just can't do it from here. She gently spurs Bob on by digging her heels into his sides, and he huffs as he moves forward.

But he just as quickly stops again when he hears a loud meow, his ears pricking up at the sound. Sylfir turns her gaze to the din to find an old, shaggy-haired black cat looking at her with dull green eyes. A smile curls her lips and she tilts her head with curiosity.

"Hello." A little laugh escapes her.

The cat meows again, softer this time.

She swings a leg around, dismounting Bob and patting him on the back, leaving him to venture a little closer to the cat. She is cautious, careful not to frighten it away as she goes to one knee. It seems, however, that there is no need to be, for the cat trots over to her, divested of its spry step by the passage of time, though as it comes closer, she realises the creature has injuries.

"Ah, that looks sore," she says.

The cat whines, butting his head on her knee. She pets him, and he lies down in the grass. The words of a healing spell spill from her lips, and through her touch, the cat's injuries mend. Now he purrs, resting his head in her hand.

Sylfir hums. "You don't have the look of a wild cat. Maybe you belong to someone in the village..."

She moves her hand from the cat's head and scratches under his chin. He seems eager for her affection, and she moves away, using that desire to lure him to Bob. He comes to her, and as she reaches the destrier, the cat looks up at him. Bob looks down with black eyes, blinking.

"You don't mind, do you, Bob?"

He snorts, turning his head away.

"Don't be like that! It's only a quick ride, and he's not that heavy."

The destrier huffs. He's clearly tired from his time on the road.

"All right. I'll walk, and the cat can sit on the saddle." Sylfir reaches into her pack to produce a large carrot. Suddenly, Bob is all too eager to receive her affection again, consuming the vegetable. When he's done, she picks up that cat and puts him in the saddle. At first, he seems confused, but he quickly settles down and purrs. Sylfir takes Bob's reins and leads him to the rectangular house down the other side of the hill.

They walk for a while until the land flattens out, taking a relaxed pace. Sylfir listens to the content purring of the old cat as he rocks with the rhythm of Bob's footsteps. She's closer to the house now, and as she approaches, she sees the cracked door open and a tall figure step through, but he doesn't venture any farther. He seems to be waiting for her.

She gets close enough to make out his features. He watches her with a stern gaze through wide-set, stormy blue eyes, his sharp lips turned down in a slight grimace. It adds to the severe look of his face—deep lines in tanned, taut skin stretching across his forehead and gaunt cheeks, his cheekbones sharp, his chin strong, and his nose gently hooked. His tied-back greying blonde hair heightens the severity of his features, and as she looks him up and down, she realises he has a shoulder injury. It's likely an old one, given the way he holds his slightly withered left arm. He's dressed in modest clothing, mostly frayed linen and old, worn leather, but the size of his house and the materials used in its construction lead her to believe he's fairly well-off.

His eyes flick to Bob, and then the black cat that sits in the saddle, and Sylfir catches the barest hint of a sneer. He angles his head back to the door.

"Artur!"

It takes a moment, but the cracked door opens again, and a boy—maybe just grown into a man—emerges from the house, a halo of chestnut curls framing the soft contours of his boyish face. His soft and sullen brown eyes dart between Sylfir and Bob, but they light up the moment they land on the shaggy old cat. He raises his arms as if to embrace it, though his fingers could never hope to reach it from this distance.

"Tom!"

Tom meows, standing up in the saddle, looking to dismount. Sylfir helps the creature down, and it walks toward Artur, who goes to his knees, uncaring of how the grass might stain his breeches. When Tom reaches him, he hugs him tight and the creature butts his head into his chin. Sylfir smiles to behold the scene, though she turns her gaze to the old man when he hums.

"Can't believe the raggedy thing survived..." he says, turning his gaze toward her. His eyes flick to her antler crown, and he huffs. "You have the look of a druid. Don't happen to be a bounty hunter, do you?"

"I am, on both counts. You can call me Sylf."

The man gestures to himself. "Wolff. So you answered the call for help? Don't know whether to feel grateful or feel sorry for you."

Sylfir tilts her head and hums. "That bad?"

"Aye."

"If this is an owlbear, know that I have faced one before."

"This isn't an owlbear, lass. I don't know what to call it."

Sylfir frowns as she looks at the tracks again. They look like owlbear tracks—they're the right size, the claw marks are distinct, and the prints of the hind feet...

She realises they're too small. They look more like the feet of a panther, or maybe a wolf. Hmm... no. A panther, for certain, but there are no leopards or jaguars in the High Forest, save for well-travelled druids in wildshape.

She steps back to get a better look. Their orientation does indeed imply that they are the hind legs upon checking for a second time, but she struggles to reconcile the evidence of her senses with what she knows to be true. "You're sure there was only one animal?"

"Aye, we only had the one, but one was enough," Wolff says.

"My brother saw it clearer than the rest of us."

Sylfir turns to Artur to see he cradles Tom in his arms.

"He helped construct the bounty with Lorys. He's down at the Wanderer right now," he says.

"Aye, when he should be here tending the land," Wolff grumbles, "My boy'll take you to him."

Sylfir nods.

"And be careful, lass. Would hate to see a young one taken before her time," he says, eyes flicking to the claw mark scars on her bare shoulder.

"Noted."

Wolff nods, then turns his gaze to his son. "And Artur. Make sure your brother doesn't get distracted when you get there."

Artur flicks his gaze at Sylfir, poorly suppressing a humorous smile as he rubs his chin into the fur of Tom's little head. "Sure." 

He puts Tom down, and the cat walks to Wolff, who seems none too pleased to have his attention, though he keeps his protests to himself. Artur walks toward Sylfir, though his eyes dart to Bob, and she can tell he's admiring the steed.

"I'm sure he'll let you pet him," she says.

He smiles with his teeth as he lays a gentle hand on Bob's neck and the destrier chews, turning his head toward him.

"What's his name?"

"Bob."

"Bob?" Artur and his father say in unison, though the former seems more confused and the latter seems more unimpressed.

A subtle scowl dawns on Sylfir's face. "It's a perfectly normal name!"

Wolff holds his good hand up to pacify her. "All right, lass. No one was saying otherwise. It's just an unusual name for a horse, is all..."

Artur laughs. "You could have named him, I don't know, Nightshade, for his black coat."

Bob snorts, turning his head away from the boy.

Wolff laughs, a smile gracing his lips for the first time as he looks at the horse. It makes him look younger. Sylfir thinks he would have been handsome in his day.

"Didn't like that one, did he?" he says.

Artur rolls his eyes. "I still think it's a good name."

"All right, off with you. You can think of names on the way to the Wanderer," Wolff says. He doesn't wait for a farewell before he ventures into his house again with the cat hot on his heels.