The woods that border Vesuvia are dense and lush with flora, trees climbing ever higher up into the sky. Long tales have been told of the dense forest, commonly midwives' tales meant to scare children from wandering beyond its edge but ones nonetheless that drove most everyone from exploring beyond the clear eyesight of the city.

All except for Muriel, that was. Your reclusive and at times fidgety friend, a mountain of a man with an equally imposing wolf that followed his steps no matter what part of the forest he'd travel to. You've grown used to the hike it takes to get out to his hut, a part of you unable to help but enjoy the way the sun flutters down through the tall canopies overhead, and the light summer breeze only solves to make it better.

As you approach you can see through the clearing that up ahead Muriel is feeding his chickens, the hens gathered around his feet clucking insistently. Muriel's broad back faces you with his fur cloak off his person in light of the summer heat; his well-loved green tunic in its place. He hasn't noticed you yet, quietly speaking to his hens as he scatters feed.