Luckily, Mort needn't wait long for reinforcements. Leaving Gallia to stare northward, he turned about to look back in the direction of the Province, watching those who came. Several figures approached in a scattered manner, one by one growing close enough that their details could be made out. First to add to the ranks of the hunting party came another middle-aged man, wearing a northman's haircut and a number of scars. This fellow Mort did not know, which meant he likely didn't hail from the Province's limited pool of warriors. Still, he was here, which was a fair sight more than Mort could say of the Province's warriors. No doubt other skills mulled about in that head of his. He said something vaguely poetic before expressing a desire for more reinforcements. [i]What, don't think me up to the task?[/i] The idea of actually saying that made Mort chuckle. A whole army might not be up to the task. Not enough souls could possibly traipse up that road to make the hunt an assured victory. Whoever did would have to make do.

The next man to arrive Mort -and just about the whole countryside- could see a long way off. [i]Scion of the line of Rastoch.[/i] A man of influence whose family bore repute in the Pigeon Capital, he could wield a rapier but Mort didn't know much more than that about him. He was...studious? Aloof? The bowman couldn't say. Then again, that weapon clutched in the tall man's hand looked a hell of a lot more like a spear than a rapier, so perhaps even the one thing Mort thought he knew didn't apply. He wondered idly what might be driving Talic to destroy the Beast, but in the end it didn't matter. So long as he couldn't use those muscles to pin the thing down with that spear, he would be the bowman's second-greatest friend.

One more arrived shortly thereafter, a man whose mask long ago became his identity. Zahir never wandered far from the village he championed, but despite his age the man seemed formidable enough as a warrior. In a battle against an unknown opponent, particularly one with an assuredly high kill count, experience meant a lot more than raw power. Mort, of course, sought to bring both to the table, but Zahir's long years made up the difference for him. 

That made five. Three swords, a spear, and a bow. The makeshift team evidenced a pronounced skew toward close-range, with only Mort himself capable of striking from afar, and no mid-range fighters to speak of. [i]Damn,[/i] Mort had hoped for a magician. Rare as they were, arcanists -with their relics, trinkets, and talismans- could make a world of difference in any battle, and a hunt would be no different. Even a loose cannon from the Chemist's Guild would have been appreciated, offering support and exploiting weaknesses with hurled firebombs and potions. No trapper, no handler, not so much as a bard or thrower of knives. Hell, even a broad-shouldered axeman to serve as a heavy hitter would make this assembly more dynamic. But no...this crew would live and die by its martial skill alone.

The others were speaking, making their introductions. Zahir revealed himself, prompting Gallia to do the same. She added a bit elucidating her determination to slay the Beast, which struck Mort as pretty unnecessary. [i]Why else would we all be here?[/i] Still, her combination of conviction and gravitas managed to be reassuring. One could only hope one's allies would be giving it their all. 'Headwin' announced himself, short and to the point, and Mort decided to follow him up.

“Bowman,” he said succinctly, giving name and vocation together in one word. He looked around. Was this really it? Well, he had better get moving before second thoughts come creeping back. “No time to waste. You lead, I'll follow.”

Before anyone could lead, however, a sixth face turned up, but not to join the group. Given the occasion all eyes turned toward the young woman headed north a distance away. She seemed to notice them too, and picked up the pace. Mort's first impression labeled her as some sort of criminal, since who but someone with something to run from or hide would shy away from company going north? But she gave them a wide berth, knocking an arrow to her bow. Even in the unsavory light Mort could easily recognize the ranged weapon, and its presence made him look closer. He caught a better glimpse of the girl's face as she glanced his way again, and this time it seemed familiar. An intrepid kid with a bow in Fero could only be one of his trainees, since nobody stood as a better instructor of archery in the whole region than he. Mort ran through his memories of students past, recalling her presence but not her name. “The hell are you doing out here...?” he breathed. She looked to be on the hunt, but nobody in their right mind would be hunting this far north, on the edge of the Beast's dominion.

That made it obvious; this girl was not in her right mind.

Mort looked back at the others. He knew that a band of seasoned hands with no foolish, hotheaded youths was too good to be true. It could be anything spurring the girl on: a desire to prove herself, revenge, a deathwish. But going about it with the bow he put in her hand made it feel like Mort's responsibility. “Crazy kid's gonna get herself killed,” he remarked, implying that the group should get after her.