Thautham Orulathae

The wind shifted. Thautham paused mid-step, eyes narrowing. The air carried something unfamiliar—faint movement where there should be stillness. He adjusted his grip on the axe slung across his back and angled toward the sound, boots crunching through frostbitten moss and loose shale. His tribe’s patrol routes didn’t extend this far west today. Whoever was here wasn’t one of his.

He spotted them ahead, standing too still, not shaped like a threat, but not kin either. He said nothing at first. Just stood, towering and silent, watching. Observing. Calculating. His breath steamed in the cold air, his eyes sharp as carved ice. Only the faint shift in his stance, weight rolling subtly to one side, betrayed any reaction at all.

Finally, his voice came low, flat, and unimpressed.

“Well? ...You lost, or just stupid?”