[b][center]Griff[/center][/b] 

The wet, cold nose of the dog at his shoulder did little to nudge Griff out of his stupor. He stared skyward for what seemed like hours, only to turn his attention to the struggle across the clearing. He saw the girl with perfectly-bifurcated hair stumble and struggle, tripping over weeds. Another girl in their star-crossed party of strangers sprung to her side. She pulled at the chimerical girl, bending and twisting the waif away from aggressive roots. 

[i]'Strange,'[/i] Griff mused hollowly.

It was almost as if the tendrils moved and grasped of their own accord. Ill intent. He could imagine the vines spitting and hissing like serpents, sinking rose-thorn teeth into soft waiting flesh. 

A growl shook Griff further, and he watched the mangy mutt leap into action. Fangs bared, the dog ripped and tore at the choking vines. Combined with the efforts of the bewitching cat-eyed girl, Capella was hauled free. 

Griff stood up. He stared at the Mote accusingly. Its ethereal runes, glowing soft like embers, almost seemed to swell with some indescribable power. Griff shivered as infernal figures danced in his mind's eye--imps and demons whispered about at bedtime. He could imagine them screaming and chanting around a Mote such as this. How had Griff [i]ever[/i] found promise in these cursed relics? They were scoundrels, promising wealth and bounty only to cast Griff further downstream.

Drowning alongside madmen and witches and young women touched by the hand of some great, sinister Fury. 

His arms were tense. Knuckles clenched. Griff motioned to his waist for a knife that was not there. Failing that, he grabbed for one of the few tools left in his leatherworking pouch. A long, broad file with stout saw-toothed edges. A tapered long glinted on the side opposite his grip. 

"Get back. Pull her away from...from [i]that[/i]," Griff instructed Demorra. He gestured cautiously at the Mote, as if the relic could sense his malcontent. He then turned to the shifting dimness in the trees opposing him.

Humming. Griff could see shadows move from between the bone-pale trees. Their shapes were impossible to make out, and he couldn't tell if they drew closer, or simply bore physiology that rendered them so indistinct as to change size on a whim. He squinted, trying to suss out any telltale signs of familiar wildlife--eyes, antlers, [i]anything[/i]. He was accustomed to animals. Trapping, killing, and skinning came as simply as breathing.

He knew to stand tall. Draw the stance wide, puff out his chest. Artificially inflate his body to take up more space. One could easily scare off the odd coyote or lone dire-wolf if the proper body language was maintained. Griff clenched the long file in his hand, and bit back fear. This was as familiar a feeling he'd experienced since being dropped into the strange grove by this Mote. Nostalgia nudged him again as he glanced quickly to the two young women across the grove, and he couldn't help but see his sisters' scared faces.

"...And we need to be ready to run," he added quietly.