The Elder of Norre proved to be quite an extravagant fellow, his garb of linens and silks as colorful as his vocabulary. Pot-bellied, and balding, he rode into the clearing on a donkey that looked -to Brenna, anyway- as if it was requesting the mercy of death through it's tired eyes. The Elder was a bulky man, and it was safe to say that the wolves weren't the only ones threatening Norre's food supply. A mob of folk trailed behind him, twenty or so Highlanders in wool and fur. Some among them carried weapons, but not many. Brenna sighed as she watched the procession come to a halt a few feet from Shiloh. Bound by some paralysis magic or 'nother, she couldn't move from the awkward position she found herself in. She held a dagger in her dominant hand, the razor-edged blade poised to sever a rope that was no longer there. She couldn't even turn her head to look, her gaze locked solely on Shiloh. 

Shiloh…What the hell is going on?!

Confusion and fear reigned supreme in the mercenary's mind; an aura of sheer, violent power radiated from Shiloh, her expression a promise of future pain. Unless we explain ourselves. Brenna tried turning her head to find the wolf, cut down from the branch-high net. She had taken it's necklace, a gift given to it… him by Shiloh, presumably. Fear welled up in her gut, and Brenna's fingers itched to feel steel in her hand. I thought that pendant looked familiar.  She blinked. There was no time for regrets.

"What is the meaning of this?!" The elder boomed, his voice a deep baritone. A ruby-inlaid chain bounced beneath his many pudgy chins as he dismounted. The donkey's legs buckled, and for a moment it seemed as if he would fall on his face. He got a foot down in time, and a trio of men had to steady him before he regained any semblance of composure. His hands were bedecked with rings of gold and silver; greedy didn't do him credit. He was a tight-fisted bastard, and Brenna was probably one of the few people there betting on Shiloh coming out of this… confrontation on top. 

"You there, madam, what do you think you're doing to my peas-…my people?" The Elder demanded, taking in the scene with a scowl. Damn fools, the Elder thought, can't keep themselves out of trouble. I'll give this wench a good hiding first, then deal with them. "My man hear tells me you appeared out of nowhere ranting and raving. Something to do with a wolf, that one there, I assume?" He pointed to the beast lying just behind the wall of paralyzed huntsmen. He clicked his fingers, and a Highlander started forward, but halted when he felt the shimmer of energy coming off of the deity in their midst. He paled. 

"Tell me: who're you to stop these men from doing their jobs? They're here, after all, on official business. Good, law-abiding folk, they are. As for you -some raggedy good-for-nuthin'- you're here to cause trouble. I can see it in your eyes. You're that kind o' person; no better than this vicious cur." He spat at the the wolf, which stirred. Brenna felt nauseous. Did this guy have any idea who he was dealing with? Could he not see the power this… being wielded? Brenna shut her eyes, trying in vain to reach beneath her cuirass and return the pendant to the lycanthrope before all hell broke loose. It was no good.

"Since I am a kind, magnani-…magnateous-…magnanimous," he stumbled over the word, "man, I'll give you a chance to leave these parts of your own freewill. Otherwise, I'll have no choice but to forcibly remove you from my domain, and trust me, I don't want that." He turned up his nose at her, clearly happy to have said his piece. 

Oh, Gods…

While they waited, Shiloh's initial rage cooled to a simmer. She sat in silence, eyes locked on them all. Hours passed, and to the relief of those trapped in paralysis the clop-clop of a four-legged animal approached. Footsteps added to the sound, and she rose to see a man like a bursting waterskin arrive with more reinforcements. She turned to look at them with a deadpan expression. So this was the Elder of Norre…this filled bladder of a man covered in pounds of jewelry. "Norre must be a very wealthy village if the elder can afford to wear gold on every finger." Her words dripped with sarcasm. "I doubt that Norre even needs to worry about losing a handful of animals." The deity knew the rest likely were barely hanging on, she intentionally said those words to stir up discontent among the man's underlings. The other Highlanders were wearing clothes that were coarse and made to last as long as possible. 

When the corpulent man noticed his men were physically unable to come close to her, he made a very foolish decision. Even cowards knew when to drop the act and beg, but not if they had more pride than fear. Instead of bargaining he decided to bluff. A dumb move when he had nothing to back up that hot air. When he called Walter a vicious cur, an unsettling grin crept across her face as she began to laugh. "Elder, don't you think you've got it backwards? The only vicious cur here, is me." Her face was smiling but her eyes sure weren't. Slowly, she walked towards the one man from the elder's group who was trapped in place. From her sleeve she produced a small dark colored pill. It was a special type of poison, used by some assassins to fake their death so their partners could sneak them out before they were executed. To untrained and uninformed individuals, the user looked as if they were dead. However, after a certain period of time they would revive without serious ill effects. The Karithians called it 'tortoise powder', as it sent the user into a dormant state.

She opened the man's mouth and forced him to swallow. In a matter of minutes, she released the paralysis on him and he started convulsing, falling to the ground like he was dead. Terror swept over everyone as they watched the Highlander's limp body go cold. Shiloh's face was impassive, knowing he'd be 'alive' again come tomorrow morning. Looking up at the crowd, she pointed her sword at each and every one. "That's strike one." She said with a chilling serenity. Going over to Walter, she began untangling him completely ignoring everyone else. Seeing the wound, she fished out a ruby and pearl brooch and put it on the wolf's paws. Whispering a few words in its ear, the paralysis on it was eased and the brooch did its work. The cut was healed, and the large gray wolf was able to stand again.

Having what she wanted, she turned back to the elder. "Oh I'll leave. But if anyone else in this region injures or kills this wolf again, I'll be paying them a visit in the dead of the night…when everything is peaceful and there's not a single person stirring. When nothing in the world could go wrong…I'll be there, waiting." She gave a few long moments to let the words sink in. "Do you know what happens when you kill all the wolves? Do you know what happens when you kill off the one other creature that feeds on the deer and elk? Sure, your herds and animals won't have to worry about getting killed. But you'll still starve, and so will the animals. Why? Because as soon as the wolves stop eating the deer, the deer will eat every plant and green blade of grass from here to the Bohar Plains. They'll strip bare the entire pasture, and move on to your fields. Like four-legged locusts, they will devour you all. The wolves, they only care about eating deer. As long as they can have that they can care less about your cows and sheep."

Walking in a circle, she continued. "You see, wolves are smart. They know if they eat your herds you'll come after them with hounds and weapons and kill every last one of them. They know as long as they stay away from humans, they can live. The only time they'd risk getting slaughtered is if they were absolutely desperate. I saw herds of deer reaching the hundreds on my way up here, so don't try and tell me those wolves were starving!" 

The Elder looked on, perplexed. "What is she ranting on about?"  He asked in a quiet aside to one of his followers. The villager in question just shrugged, as bewildered by Shiloh's speech as the Elder was. "Everyone knows wolves are evil. Says so in the scriptures, doesn't it?"  The villager asked, never having learnt to read. The Elder nodded. "O' course!" He whispered, answering the man's question as vaguely as possible. The Elder, despite being a man of great wealth and standing, had never learned to read either. He hired scribes for the job. What use were words anyway? 

Unfazed by Shiloh's demeanor -through either sheer ignorance or incomprehensible bravery, I can't decide- the Elder stared at the deity as if she were some sort of fiend that'd crawled it's way out of hell to torment his land. None of what she'd said had made any sense to him, but he nodded along as if such simple thoughts and facts were beneath him. When she was done, he scoffed in derision, beckoning his charges to do the same. There was a halfhearted rumble from the group that faltered and died in a heartbeat. The Elder thrust a fat, sausage-like finger at Shiloh, fire in his voice. And nothing between those big, red ears of his, it seems. "Bah! What nonsense you spew. Listen to the wench, my good people. She presumes to tell us what to do, thinks to be-bestow upon us wisdom we do not already possess. Hmph!" He spat in her general direction. "We know what wolves do, miss. We know how things work. What do you think would happen if we weren't around to keep 'em in check?" He shook his head, acting as if he was too smart for the stranger with the unnatural powers and scary expression. He knew that was not the case, but wasn't willing to cede the point in front of his pea-…his villagers. 

"Y''know what I think, good people?!" He asked, raising his voice so that all present could hear him. "I believe these…strange attacks on our steadfast have been not the workings of wolves, but of this…witch!"  He turned on her in a blind rage, idiocy and pride overriding all his base instincts. How could he not see the power and magic she controlled? The threat she posed? One small act of benevolence and this whole unfortunate affair would be over, Brenna reckoned, struggling against the invisible ties that bound her limbs in place. For a moment, raw strength and willpower helped her to raise her left arm to where the pendant grew hot and heavy over her pounding heart. Then, the magic took hold. Her limb snapped back into place, and the mercenary let out an annoyed huff. 

In the meantime, things proceeded at a pace too quick to follow. The Elder, having jumped a few acts right to the big finale, beseeched the crowd to action. He told them of foul magic and evil deeds, of a strange crone who could make wolves do her bidding. He told them of a vengeful witch who hated them for all they'd achieved, and what they had. He confessed to having knowledge on such beings for quite some time, talking of a vileness and wickedness that put murderers and four-legged beasts to shame. He gestured at Sholih erratically, thinking her to be such a person. The crowd, as always, listened halfheartedly. They knew he'd gotten way ahead of himself, that what he said made some sense, though, not enough to persuade them wholly. And then he mentioned silver…

"Twenty silver pieces to the man- or woman, who brings me that wolf's pelt. Another fifty to whoever brings me the harridan's head!" 

"No!" Brenna tried to shout, to no avail. She tried to free herself of the deity's paralysis. It didn't work. The crowd started forward, hesitantly, and there was nothing she could do but stand and watch. Please, no! 

He was afraid of this. It was the reason why the wolf was so nervous when he was around people or in towns. People hated werewolves because all they knew were horrible monsters that killed without a thought, by a madness brought by the moon. And those who weren't killed were cursed with the same thing that transformed their attackers. Most folk didn't remember the kindly ones who were between man and beast, the ones who kept to themselves and helped those who were lost. Men like his father, and his father's father before him. And the way things were turning, if someone didn't change the path they were going it would only be a matter of time before Shiloh's patience ran out. Shiloh had been holding it in ever since she found him bleeding from his stomach. The Highlanders didn't see it but Shiloh was trying to give them a chance, to learn and think farther than they had before. Sylvain and Auron told him what Shiloh was capable of when pushed to the edge, and he knew the deity didn't enjoy killing people despite the way she acted.

The only reason why she bothered to explain the important role of wolves was because she cared about these people, she wanted them to make themselves better. But her words fell on deaf ears. These weren't the people who cared about books or things scholars knew. If they didn't understand something, they feared it. When the elder set a bounty on their heads, Walter saw disappointment in her eyes behind that stony expression. That small spark of hope that the townsfolk would see reason died when they started taking up arms. They were willing to silence them and cover this up just for a handful of silver. Shiloh was right when she attempted to goad the bystanders to turn on the elder; if Norre was wealthy they wouldn't be this desperate over a loss of a few animals. Twenty silver wasn't a particularly large sum, but a fortune to those who had nothing. 

"I see…" Disappointment crept into her voice as her eyes lowered to the ground. The hint of sympathy faded from the eerie lack of emotion in her voice. "…I guess you all want to die. That can be arranged." Walter began to panic when he heard it, and she was already wielding two swords at the ready. No! NO!

At once the paralysis holding everyone else stopped as the deity began warming up for a fight. "I heard a man was sold out by his blood brother for twenty silvers–looks like he wouldn't be the only one." "Polecat…" The lycanthorpe called to her with a warning in his voice. She looked back at him. "Don't worry, as much as it'd make me feel better I won't wipe Norre off the map." That assurance didn't ease his worries as she was out for blood. No longer holding back, Shiloh likely would beat them all within an inch away from death. In his mind Shiloh's voice spoke to him with a different message: 'Walter, run. You're faster than them–they won't be able to catch you, I won't let them. Greyson and Niall will be alright, stay safe.' Wolves ran faster than any human could without magic. Right away he bolted back through the woods, as fast as his legs could take him. But before he left he told Shiloh something about the people who had been standing around him when he was caught by the net. There was a Highlander woman who had taken the necklace Shiloh had given him; if there was one person who was worth giving a second chance it would be her.

As the clearing disappeared behind, he heard the deity let out a terrible battle cry and brandish metal. The blades she held were the wind-cutting sword and the strange one made from lacriamium fused to obsidian. As the people rushed to chase after him and go for her head, Shiloh blocked them off with a wave of shadowy hands emerging from beneath. The arms grabbed anything that moved and tossed them around like dolls, pulling people close for her to hit with her blades. The first cuts came from the katana drawing blood, the second cuts healed the wounds as the dual-edged sword bit into flesh. None of the wounds she was inflicting were intended to be fatal, but they sure felt just as bad.

Brenna planted herself facefirst in the dirt, her arms failing to catch her as the magic that bound her finally dispersed. Through the shouts and panicked hollering she heard the distinct sound of blades being bared. It made her skin prickle. The mercenary, covered in mud and slightly angry, raised herself up, strained muscles burning their dissent through her body. Gods above! She cursed, inwardly, pale eyes beholding a scene of utter chaos. The huntsmen and villagers -a mass of poorly trained, ill-experienced peasants- rose to the bait of silver like pigs feeding on leftovers. Desperation, greed, fear, pride; strange influences that achieved the same purpose: The Elder's purpose. The group shouted, and charged. Some went straight for Shiloh, others angled towards the forest after the wolf. It was clear what they wanted from the way they ran and whistled- they wanted blood. 

Finding her feet, Brenna aired steel. It wasn't anything special; a bastard sword forged by some blacksmith or 'nother in a far-off land. It's job was simple, and it did it well, Brenna knew, taking off after the latter group planning to track and kill the wolf which had fled. Not on my watch. She promised herself, catching 'the youth' -who was partly responsible for this mess- by his collar. It didn't take much to drag him backwards, and before he could figure out what was going on, Brenna had put a boot to his backside. He stumbled and fell. "What the hell?!" He cursed, rolling to his feet. "What're you doing?!" He bellowed at Brenna. He had misplaced his spear during the fall, and the sight of the bastard sword poised brought him up short. 

"Saving your life," the Highlander replied, "not that it's worth much. Go on. Go!" She said, fending away the youth. "Go back to Norre, and take these men with you." She pointed at the men who'd seen the scuffle and given up the chase, for now. They'd come to help, but now they milled about, aimlessly. Behind the youth's back, the Elder's group was being torn to pieces. Well, not literally. Brenna shot a wary glance over his shoulder, seeing the gleam of swords and hearing the whistle as they split blood. Then the unnatural, hollow whir as the second sword found flesh, and healed those it touched. Men screamed piteously as they were cut or stabbed, going down or reeling away clutching wounds that no longer existed. Near-transparent arms of whirling smoke from the mud and dirt to snatch at passing villagers. Men were hurled with unnatural strength, or slapped aside as they made to blindside the deity. One thug, a man Brenna recognized as Redbeard, hit the ground some feet away from her, the hard landing knocking him unconscious. His head lolled to one side, the scalp split open and bloody. The group cringed away. 

"All of you, get outta here!" Brenna shouted, trying to force them away, beckoning for them to leave. "This is more hassle than it's worth. Forget the wolf. Forget this…stranger, I'll deal with her. Just get back to Norre and don't even consider coming back!" The last was said in warning, one which the group heeded as they disappeared. The elder ranted at them as they passed, calling them cowards and promising retribution for such…selfish acts of self-preservation. Not that anyone was dying. Brenna scoffed, and steeled herself as she approached Shiloh. She wasn't sure why she'd helped the villagers…or the wolf for that matter. But it felt right, and that was good enough for her. 

"Shiloh!" She shouted, calling the deity by her name. Even here men had heard that name, and realized what it implied. That didn't stop their attempts to kill the strange lass, nor did it stop them from being mercilessly and systematically cut down. They attacked, and flinched, and squirmed as invisible wounds made them ball up into fetal positions. Some blacked out from the pain, others endured it, voicing their hatred for feeling such sensations. Brenna flinched too, narrowly avoiding a balled-up fist made of magic. "Shiloh." She said, quieter this time, getting to within arm's reach before the blades turned on her. The Highlander parried one, rushing to meet the other. Her arm went numb as she caught the second, her blade sparking as it met her opponent's. Damn, another repair that needs doing. The thought was so out of place that it surprised her. And that was when the arm snatched her legs out from under her. 

A raised katana made her shield her face, suddenly terrified. "W-wait!" Brenna cried, scrabbling in the dirt for her absent sword, knowing it was too late. "Stop this madness, please!"   

She was back in Marhaven again, surrounded by armed guards with pikes and shields. Banners and plumes in the colors of the city watch. No, she was in Whitebarrow. Townsfolk with axes, shovels, and swords were hounding her down as she took flight and she was causing as much destruction of crates and barrels as she could to slow them down. No, she was in the Highlands–but the feeling was still the same. They were trying to hunt down a person she considered as close as family. The sole of her boot rammed into a man's chest, knocking him back flat onto his backside. All senses were open and the sounds of battle became muted. Her shadows caught a few men trying to escape from the side and dragged them back in for another beating. They were going to live, but they'd be in a world of pain while they still breathed. Killing them would be too easy, too cheap for a punishment. If they died they would go straight to Dalanesca, and she wasn't planning on having that happen. They would live and they would learn. It would be an important lesson.

Shiloh saw one man fall unconscious, head bleeding from the impact. Without a second thought she was beside him, and stabbed the bloke with the obsidian-lacriamium sword. He wasn't dead yet, and he wasn't going to be after this was over. They would remember. "You are going to live," She whispered chillingly into a man's ear. "You are going to live and remember for the rest of your life." "Shiloh!" Someone was calling her name. She didn't recognize the voice. Nobody knew who she was. Only Walter did and he was gone. Branches were snapped as they circled to snare the remaining hunters still awake enough to run. "Shiloh." The voice again, closer this time. The face of the Highlander woman came into her sight as the blades went their way. Fear, apprehension, worry, regret, the glance of second thoughts written on the face. Shock, surprise, terror, anxiety as she was pulled into the air by her feet.

"Stop this madness, please!"Stop. They were begging her to stop. Walter's face flashed before her mind, then Nerine's, then the face of her husband. No more bloodshed. No more killing. No more hatred. Those words made all of her attacks come to a sudden halt, the shadowy limbs dropping everything they had in their grasp. She took a good look at the Highlander woman's face. 'Polecat…don't take it all out on everyone. Not all of them wanted to skin me alive.'  It was her. She was the one Walter said took the pendant and wrestled the spear away from the kid before they stuck the tracker with it. If there was one person the deity was willing to listen to it would be Brenna, but only because the lycanthorpe had put in a good word for her. The rest had blood on their hands. "It's funny… When I asked for you to stop, nobody was willing to listen to me. But as soon as I start throwing people around a little everybody screams." Turning to look at the 'survivors', she noticed there were some absent. "It doesn't matter if you know who I am. You'll still try to kill me. After all, I'm not Dalanesca. The insects knew who she was and they still killed her. You are a godless bunch without morals or shame. I understand now–your god is money, and you'll do anything for it. Well let's see how far you're willing to go." 

Did they have enough of pain and suffering, or were they still able to take more? The elder was a lost cause, there was no use talking with him. Physical torture wasn't going to hit him hard the way it did for others. The only way to hurt a man covered in gold was to take a stab at his coinpurse, and make sure he couldn't patch it up. But being a person of power and influence meant she couldn't just raze his possessions to the ground. The greedy boar would just leech off of the rest moaning how pitiful he was and nothing would change. No, she'd kick him off his high horse and then let the rats eat a hole in his pockets. Maybe the people of Norre would then be able to pick up what spilled from his coffers.  

Brenna tasted the bitter, rusty taste of blood in her mouth. It was warm and foul, and the mercenary spat it out as she clambered to her feet, bastard sword now used as a crutch on which to steady herself. She hadn't been hit hard so far as she could tell; it transpired that she had bitten her tongue, a result of being jolted by the forces of magic- the Hands Shiloh had summoned. She rubbed the numbness from her arm as Shiloh talked. "You call this 'a little'?" Brenna said sardonically. Looking around, it was hard to imagine what world the deity lived in. Men, those of the hunting party and the elder's posse, were strewn about the place. Most moaned and grumbled, feeling pain in places that no longer showed the marks of Shiloh's judgement. Nearly all of those gathered lay in different states of distress; spread-eagled or curled up, semi-conscious or completely out of it, only a few cowardly -or smart- men remained standing. All of them stood by their Elder, a man who now shook with either fear or rage. Brenna could see madness in his eyes. She ignored him. "Oh, I think you've taught them shame, m'lady." Brenna said, excitedly happy and dauntingly shocked that she hadn't been thrown in with the rest of them. "And they have morals. It's just…they've just…been led astray. These are desperate times, and times like these bring out the worst in people." Brenna didn't know how truthful her words were or whether they'd have any sway on the deity. She suddenly felt nervous, pre-battle shakes setting in, making her curse inwardly. Why am I defending these people? She wondered, the answer already unearthed the moment she locked eyes with the Elder. Because they're not the problem. He is. The missing livestock, the human footprints, the paw prints, the wealth he displays. It's all connected, it has to be. It wasn't difficult to piece everything together. At least, she thought it wasn't. Perhaps delirium had set in or perhaps she had hit the nail on the head. Plenty of silver to be had through cattle rustling, and there are always men of ill-repute ready and willing enough to do the deed, and silence anyone who squeals. Besides, wolf's paws are considered as lucky as tails or rabbit's feet; make for good talismans. Sell well, and it's easy to blame animals that can't defend themselves vocally. In a sudden wave of clarity, Brenna shifted her gaze from the paunchy elder to the wiry frame of Shiloh, bitterness making her voice quiver. "They're good people. It's a shame I can't say the same for a certain few." Implication, plant the seed of suspicion, stoke the flames. The elder watched as the two conversed, suspecting, though, not quite knowing what the two were talking about. Still, he got the jist of it soon enough. 

"They know? How can they know? I haven't let it slip…there's no proof…" "What was that, elder?" A villager asked. "Nothing, nothing, m'boy. Be a good lad, go back to the village and rally those of noble heart. Tell them…'their elder needs them!'" The villager turned to flee, leaving the trio alone save for a handful of incapacitated fools. What happens now? The mercenary wondered, wary of the elder, and whatever new deceit he was stirring up. 

Even without divinity their whispers could be heard loud and clear. So he was going to send for help, was he? They would see about that… Instead of stopping the messenger, Shiloh instead chose to hitch a ride in the man's shadow–letting the elder watch helplessly as the man unknowingly became a harbinger of destruction. With Walter out of immediate danger, it was time to pay a visit to Norre. With a twist of cruel irony, it could be said that they had brought Misfortune upon themselves and had no one else to blame. The messenger ran and ran, over the slopes and hills towards the village. Breathless, he finally arrived at the settlement's edge gasping for air. Those who recognized him came to ask him what was the matter, and while he was unaware terrible things began to emerge from behind. Before he could ask why their faces had paled, thick miasma began to swirl about them, growing larger to envelop the surrounding buildings. The winds began to howl, and dark thunderheads congregated over in the sky.

From outside it looked like a massive supercell storm was brewing, building momentum for a massive deluge. Trees were bending and flailing in the winds, animals screaming in panic. Birds left while they still could, even small vermin like rats took shelter underground. Horses were trying to break out of their stables to escape the incoming disaster. Under the effect of the miasma, all the villagers were beset by horrific nightmares and hallucinations of their worst fears. Cries of fear and terror were drowned out by the wailing gusts sweeping through the streets like banshees. Standing in the midst of it all Shiloh watched unblinking, eyes burning with barely-contained fury. Thunder crashed and lightning flashed above as her emotions were spiraling out of control. Deep-seated misanthropy and resentment were rising to the surface. For a moment she thought of burying them all. They wanted her to do it. They were demanding that she do it! Those half-whispered fragments of broken hearts and slivers of shadow from the darkest parts of man she had swallowed were all crying in unison for retribution.

Norre would not be missed! For their willful ignorance they would pay! They would bear the weight of the sins of their elder, for even allowing such a greedy man to rise to power in the first place! They would suffer! Suffer unto their third and fifth generations! They would beg and grovel in the dirt for the sweet release of death!

'Burn her! Burn the heretic! Hang her and have her tried for treason! Execute her for bringing misfortune and disaster upon our fair country!' 'She's a jinx, a curse on us all!' 

Looking up at the churning storm, she was hearing the old voices of the past. How she hated people like that. People who were too afraid or ignorant to think and too quick to place the blame on someone else. Blaming what they couldn't understand on innocent beings who never had a chance to defend themselves. She had tried being patient with them, educating them, and even giving them a chance to reconsider. But just like the stubborn humans they were, they never listened. No more kindness. No more mercy. If they could not choose for themselves, then she would do it for them. Reversing the flow of fortune, each and every one of the inhabitants of Norre began to relive the experiences of every person they had wronged in their life. Would they be able to survive the crushing weight of others' misfortune?

Within their minds she planted the thought of how their dear elder was cheating them all, forcing a suggestion to depose him and strip him of all his possessions. To those who held loyalty to the man she ignited discontent. Why should one man dictate how they lived their lives? Why did he deserve to live wearing gold and silver on every finger? What good had he brought them, and how much did he take? Wouldn't Norre be better off without him? If they were honest folk, then to Inferos with the wolves. Wolves they couldn't always catch, but the elder was always there in their midst–fleecing them year after year. 'When we see him, we will make him pay what is due.' She said to all of them. 'When we see him we will have justice.' They weren't going to let him have his way anymore.

The storm subsided and the winds abated. Shiloh's boiling rage had fallen to a simmer. No one was physically hurt, but the damage was done. They would forget about the wolves and attend to the leech drinking off their coin purses. And as a last parting thought in their minds, she suggested that he must be kept alive. Once a person was dead, it was all over. If they wanted him to confess to his crimes he had to still be breathing. The miasma fading, Norre fell into silence as the people recovered. With her plain appearance, they were too busy regaining their grip on reality to notice.