"TELL US WHERE HE IS, YOU SUMMER SCOUNDREL!" A high voice boomed into the sloppy area of an alley.
"Yeah, syverian fucker," another one barked. "Tell us where you bastards have hid him."
Both voices belonged to Flameseekers. They were similar in their angry pitch. Voices high and deep, that held no love for the summer dwellers. At all. The voices were hardened as the rare edge of Athos' axeblade.
A man knelt cowering in front of the Icelanders. The two who questioned him were warriors of the Were-beast clan. Hybrids prone to loosing their tempers most often. However, only fourteen of the warriors stood before this poor schmuck of a Syverian. The Icelanders all hung in dark corners of the alley as the two warriors in front questioned him.
"P—Please, I'm just a farmer," the kneeling man stuttered. "A drunken man. I've no idea who t—this Dracuny is..."
