The leadership of the Vorseman were strangled by it. The leadership of the Vorseman had been failing its people. Clan Mastiff, though it was markedly smaller than most of the other clans, had largely remained close to home. His father, Beolnyr, made sure that the people's needs were cared for first. This made him largely non-existent as an influence in greater Clan Vorseman politics. Slowly, Clan Mastiff was being edged out of mining and craft opportunities. It was only the Druids who remained close by, giving the Mastiff clan a boost in reputation and standing. And it was still a mystery why they chose a clan that bordered some of the most dangerous territory in the Westvahl.

"Would you return, Dagmar? Would you come to lead your people to greatness... again?" He looked towards the sky briefly then heard a foreign voice yell in the distance as he rounded the bend to his home. Looking in the distance he saw the rain rushing over the plains, pounding down the dust, the grasses and a small convoy of men dressed in dingy white tabbards with bold red crosses emblazoned on their chests.
---
Shep sat quietly in his study. He called it that, but it was more of a converted stable still smelling of manure and horses. It was out of the way enough so that didn't have to hear the constant pounding of the blacksmithing hammer and the constant yelping of orders from the training for the younglings, as they called the children who had just come of age. Learning to fight for the clan was one of the first things each Vorseman went through before choosing a profession. It seemed like a good way to toughen up the children for other duties in this hard land.

Clan Mastiff seemed to have their training a little tighter and a little more precise than the other, larger clans. No one he spoke of could give him a straight answer besides that they were the defenders of their lands, and they expected no help from the other clans. Shep had brought it up in conversation with Corman during one of their lessons, the youngest of the Mastiff family:
"There are no others who would save us."
"Cuthbert would save you." Shep prompted.
"Would he? Why would a god, such as Cuthbert, save those who can't save themselves?" Corman pushed.
"That is not Cuthbert's way, he does not require all to pay with their blood." Shep pushed back.

"Then Cuthbert's way breeds weakness. You can't save everyone, especially those who are unable to save themselves." Corman said with finality.
Shep's temper was starting to show. "Cuthbert saves whom he saves. There is reason in all things. It is not for us to question Cuthbert's will."

Shep chuckled, for as reserved and as self-aware as Corman was, he could definitely raise one's color a notch or two.

It was a little over a year ago since Shep drug himself into town with the help of Corman, muddied from the waist up. Corman had spied their struggling convoy in the rain and sped out to help them knowing that the wagon would be all but lost in the mud if they continued to struggle with their oxen.

In the midst of the madness, Corman set his horse loose and sent him home. Shep, as well as the rest of the Clovermen were dumbfounded that a perfectly good beast of burden was set loose when he should be helping. "What did you go on and do that for?" Shep yelled over the roaring rain. Corman shouldered up to the wagon as he spoke."What do you mean? He should wait for us. I wouldn't want him to be hurt."

"He could have helped us!" Shep said, noticeably frothing at the mouth. The puzzled Corman looked at him incredulously and began to heave his weight into pushing the wagon.

It was hours later before the made it up the hill to Corman's shack where it was less likely to wash away into mud. After some introductions, Corman welcomed them into his care as a son of the Chieftain. He chewed on the title a little, but also seemed pleased to see outsiders.

"You live a ways out of your village for being a son of the chieftain." Shep said with a wry smile.
Corman, still riddled with conflict had nothing to respond with but an uneasy silence.