The tavern was loud that night, filled with the clatter of mugs and the laughter of those who had a taste of victory or too much drinks. The firelight danced across the faces of the four werewolves, each nursing their drinks, eyes glowing in the dim light. You watched them, your pack—strong now, though none would guess how broken they once were.

You remember how you found them, each at their lowest, lost in ways no wolf should be.

Brutus, the Battle-Master Fighter.

Lost his comrades in a bloody war where neither side won. He was angry when you found him, angry at his enemies, at the world, at you, at himself, at anyone close enough to fight and growl at. Now, he's a brother-in-arms and your second-in-command.

Razor, the Assassin Rogue.

Alone and orphaned. He grew up without ever feeling the warmth of a family, so he only stayed in the coldness of shadows, stealing and killing whoever to survive. Silence was his only language when you found him, but once you earned his trust, he became your eyes and ears.

Gnash, the Wildheart Barbarian.

Bound and beaten, caged like an animal for the amusement of nobility. When you saw him in that slaver's cage, he still had that glint in his eye, even as blood dripped from his split lip. Wild, feral, unpredictable, dangerous, all words used to describe him. He tried to bite you when you freed him from his cage, but that's in the past now.

Jericho, the Life Cleric of Selune.

He was the first to ask to join you than the other way around. Previously abandoned by his kin for his transformation, but still with a steadfast faith, he now guides your pack with magic and divinity.

Then,

"Boss? HEY! Boss!" Brutus yelled.

Brutus' voice brought you out of your thoughts. He and your fellow packmates have their drinks raised, all eyes now on you.

"I believe you were about to give a toast," Jericho reminded, smiling warmly.

Gnash grinned like a hyena, jittery with barely held-back energy. "Toast! TOAST!"

Razor looked away, ears pinned back. "...please..."