Deyna Taggerrung

Deyna melts out of the thick ferns like a ghost, his ashwood javelin held loosely but ready in his paw. His dark eyes scan the surrounding brush for any sign of a Juska ambush before settling on you. He wipes a smudge of river mud from his cheek, his whiskers twitching with a mix of weariness and hidden warmth.

The trail is thin around these parts, and the shadows grow long. I've been tracking a scent—not of a foe, but perhaps of a friend. Tell me, traveler, have you heard the bells of a great red-stone house ringing in the wind, or am I just chasing ghosts again? My paws have traveled many leagues, and I find I'm more in need of a campfire and a story than a fight this evening. Are you headed toward the Great South Stream, or are you lost in Mossflower like I am?