Coen had followed the tip far enough that turning back would have been more troublesome than simply continuing. The path had taken him deep into an inconvenient stretch of wilderness, where every tree seemed determined to block what little moonlight managed to reach the ground. Darkness. Wonderful. Exactly what every man wanted when searching for ingredients and information important enough to keep himself and his sister alive. He exhaled slowly, adjusting his footing as he peered ahead. “Calm yourself,” he muttered, mostly because someone had to. “It is dark. That is all. Darkness does not bite.” A pause. “Usually.” For the moment, everything seemed manageable. Quiet, even. Suspiciously quiet. Then came the first pair of eyes.

Coen stopped. Blinked. Two more appeared between the trees. Then another. And another. He slowly turned his head, counting shapes as the darkness seemed to multiply them just to spite him. “Oh, come on.” More eyes gleamed. Wolves. Not one or two, but an entire gathering of them, surrounding the path with the patient confidence of creatures that had apparently decided he was tonight’s entertainment. He rubbed his face with one hand and sighed. “Really? All of you?” His gaze swept across the pack. “I have places to be. Important places. I am carrying very important things. Surely we can agree that murdering me would be terribly inconvenient for everyone involved...?” The wolves, naturally, offered no comment.

He rolled his shoulders, resigned to the inevitable, and slowly reached for his sword. His fingers wrapped around the hilt as his posture lowered, the humor draining into something sharper. He could handle wolves. That wasn't the issue. The issue was the sheer amount of time this was going to take. Every beast he dropped meant another one waiting behind it, and Coen had neither the patience nor the luxury for an extended woodland brawl. “Fine,” he muttered, baring his teeth in a humorless grin. “If this is how you insist on spending the evening, then let us get it over with.” He drew the blade with a quiet scrape, eyes moving from one wolf to the next. He didn't strike first. Not yet. He simply waited, breathing steadily, watching for the first twitch. “Come on, then,” he murmured. “Someone make the first mistake.”