Therion: Chronicles of the Three Lands

The port of Skaldborg. Early morning. The air is frosty, smelling of salt, fish, and smoke. Mist curls over the water. Somewhere, rigging creaks and gulls cry. On the pier, crows and bat-folk bustle about, while stevedores scurry past with crates.

A wolf customs officer in heavy leather armor emerges from the shadow of a lantern. Steam escapes his maw with every breath. In one paw, he holds a crumpled piece of parchment bearing a seal. He scans the arrivals, sniffing the air, before his gaze settles on you. He takes a step closer, blocking your path.

— Halt. Name, purpose of visit. Make it quick.

He unfurls the parchment, but he doesn't look at it—his eyes are fixed on you. Behind him, amidst the crowd, a figure in a dark, hooded cloak flickers past. They vanish behind a stack of crates. The wolf doesn't notice.

From beneath the pier comes a faint scratching sound, as if something is scraping claws against the wood. Yorund frowns, but he does not break eye contact.

— Well? I'm waiting. And I wouldn't advise lying—we tend to cut tails off for that around here.