Chiefdom of Clan Mastiff was fraught with tragedy. The Clan Chief, Beolnyr, was sickly. And, ironically, the Druids had not raised a finger to save him from whatever sapped his life away. Though it is not becoming to take advantage of weakness, Shep saw this as an opportunity to turn a miracle into the saving grace for these heathens. They had seen small miracles, but nothing that seemed to make waves in the population. It was like they had seen it all before though there was no visible sign of their Gods in their lives, in spite of the fact that their names were always on their lips. This thought infuriated Shep.

Shep looked up, the sky was beginning to cloud, it could mean rain. This was reasonably rare in these lands, but not unheard of. With rain, came welcome moisture, which in turn, would make this dusty trail into a miserable mire that was nearly impossible to travel in. Shep couldn't help but raise his voice in frustration, "Cuthbert, though I am your humble servant, something better damn well come out of this miserable appointment of service!" He glanced around at the other Clovermen, who continued to silently plod along. They neither joined or reprimanded him, which disappointed Shep both ways. He really had been doing this for far too long. The wind was picking up and the smell of moisture was heavy in the air. He continued to look up at the sky and finally, completed his prayer. "Amen!" He shouted, slightly straining his voice in the process. Then a rush of rain began to pummel the ground, turning the ground between the patches of grass to mud within moments.

Rolngar, one of the other Cloverman pulled his travel cloak close and pulled the hood over his head. In a slightly sing-songish voice he spoke loudly over the thunderous rain, "Thank you once again, Shep, for such a stirring--and irreverent--reminder of why we are here. Perhaps if you really do shove off to some other station, sooner rather than later, I might add, we might have a little more of Cuthbert's aid."

"Piss off, Rolgie."

---

Corman had spent most of the day gathering equipment and supplies to begin fixing up the property he had commandeered. To work with his hands was the easiest way for him to release any pent up aggression he had in him. It satisfied him to know he could make things change by using the sheer force of his will.

He had been watching the gathering clouds which seemed to appear from no where. It was unusual but not unprecedented. On his way back to the lowly hut, he spied a cloaked rider which was unmistakably his mother on horseback, but he paid her no mind. If she wished to speak with him, she could come to him. He knew she was angry, very angry, but he didn't mind. It wasn't about her right now, it was about him. He really had done his best to please and appease his family. Corman just couldn't bear to let his life be swallowed up in service of his family and that thought tortured him. Was it that the Gods were cruel? What was shall be--shall be; what is--shall continue to be. There was no future only the past and the present.

And right now, his present wasn't looking that good and looking up, it didn't look like it would bode well in the coming present, either. He picked up his pace towards home. T'aasson, named after the great horse god T'aas, was his young steed that he personally broke and trained last year. T'aasson, surprisingly, was who conveyed the need to pick up the pace that Corman had picked up without realizing it. Without even tapping his sides, the horse began to trot heartily along.

Though all the signs of the storm were apparent, it was as if the sky was holding its breath. Waiting, maybe, until he got to home and shelter. Dagmar himself would not single out one for such an act, but Corman could never question the act. He had studied the lore and the great epics written of the gods. During the feverish trot the thought of the gods caught him unaware.

The epics always had men who knew the gods. They spoke with them and were led by them to bring his people to this higher place. Corman cared deeply for his people, but he always felt that there was something more either for him or for the clans he belonged to. Above his brother, Redgurn, there was bickering and bitter infighting.