A band of raiders, about ten or twelve, crested the hill but only barely. Heads cloaked with the skinned heads of dire wolves peering over the curve of the hill they looked on at the settlement. It was a modest thing. A small handful of people, maybe three family groups, four at the most, with about as many thatch huts arranged in a rough circle from the center of which rose a thin line of smoke.
“The men are gone.” Came the voice of one of the raiders in the center of the batch. There were lines in his face and the white lines of the Wise One sat in his temples.
“Thank you for your knowledge Wise One.” The rest of the raiders murmered and stroked a line from their temple to the back of their heads.
“Let us go.” The one in the center rose to his feet. The head of the wolf on his head trailed down his back. His torso was left exposed, decorated only by a loose rope that crossed from hip to shoulder and held a short spear, topped by a sharpened rock. He wore a rough tunic that saw better days. His feet were wrapped in something that looked like it belonged on a small animal. The rest of the pack were similarly dressed.