"What do you mean they didn't pay up?!" bellowed the Stag Lord, and hurled an empty bottle towards the young woman standing in front of him. His aim was impeccable even after several bottles of wine. He liked to think he practised a highly developed art of drunken archery, similar to the drunken boxing style of some monks in faraway lands. However, Kressle was nimble and agile (and also sober), her reflexes in top shape, so she dodged the missile easily.

"They got reinforcements," she said, unfazed by the attack. "Someone was sent from Restov. They pushed us back. We lost many good men."

"Pah! Restov! I will raze that pompous shithole to the ground! In one month, we march!"

Kressle rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips.

"You said the same six months ago, and we aren't getting any closer. You just drink and boast and scratch your balls. You know what, mighty Stag Lord? I'm done with this shit. For all I care, you can shove your bold plans up your ass!"

The woman dashed out of the room and slammed the door behind herself, partly because she was furious, partly to protect herself from eventual flying objects. The Stag Lord's knife stuck in the timber, buzzing and quaking for a few more seconds.

He had no energy left to go after her. Instead, he dragged himself towards the bed. In the last moment, however, he recoiled from dropping his weight onto the carefully arranged, squeaky clean pillows, and sank to the floor instead. There was nothing clean about him or his room, except for the bed, a symbol of a happy future. He had to keep it intact for the time the lady of his dreams would come to him.

As if on cue, as soon as he closed his eyes, he could smell the scent of daffodils.

"You are in grave danger, my stag. A hound is come from Restov to hunt you down. She has been promised wealth and power, should she succeed."

A female hound. Why not just call her a bitch?

"I'll do my best to keep her away from you, until you prepare for the fight. But alas, she is powerful. She binds nature to her will. She summons the beasts of the forest to fight for her. Sometimes she turns into a beast herself."

The Stag Lord found himself smiling. He had enough alcohol in his system to feel confident, even after the setbacks he'd just suffered. If he captured that famous Hound, he could finally toss the old man onto the midden heap where he belonged. It would be so much fun to break her, in every possible way and then some. He was good at breaking druids. She would serve him. She would kiss the sole of his boot in thanks for every blow.

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"Please be careful, my stag," said the voice of a brook on the rocks. "She is snooping around, trying to feel out your weaknesses, the secrets of your past, searching for your vulnerable spot. Defeat her, and I will come to you."

The fresh forest scents began to disperse, gradually replaced by the smell of stale booze coming from his own stomach.

"One more thing," said the voice. "I left a gift for you in the courtyard. Lesser men keep dogs to guard their houses. You deserve something better. Farewell!"

The Stag Lord opened his eyes and struggled to his feet.

"Kressle!" he roared. Nothing happened. So she is indeed done with this shit. Fine, then. Good riddance. "Akiros!"

A tall, muscular man entered the room.

"Yes, Chief?"

"You remember the little hut in the Narlmarches where we picked up the old man?"

"You mean your father?"

The Stag Lord spat on the rug, but was in no mood to cavil about terminology.

"That. Put it to the torch."

"Understood," said Akiros. "It will be done as soon as the fog lifts."

"Fuck the fog!" thundered the Stag Lord, covering the man's face in a cloud of boozy breath. "Are you a man or a crybaby? I want it to burn, now! And get me another crate. I have to make plans, and I'm out of fuel."

"I'll have one brought to you in a minute, Chief. Erastil forbid you run dry."

The Stag Lord paused, trying to figure out if Akiros was mocking him. But before he could reach a conclusion, the man turned back from the doorway, remembering something important. "One more thing. There is an owlbear in the courtyard. Looks dazed or something. Can we kill it, or do you want to do it yourself?"

"Meh, who gives a—"

At the last moment, the Stag Lord stopped to think. A pet owlbear? Guarding the fort? Devouring unwanted corpses? Intimidating feisty captives with its mere presence? So she did love him, after all.

"No, no, no! Leave it alone! It's mine, and I'll keep it. Just make sure to stay out of its way until I tame it. Dismissed."

Akiros contracted his bushy eyebrows, but he knew better than question the chief's decisions. He bowed and departed, collecting his courage to get past the beast and fetch the wine. The Stag Lord took his cloak. It was time to pay a visit to his sorry excuse for a father and put his alleged proficiency with animals to good use.