Erban’s father took him north of the wall rarely, just as far as he would dare, to the ridge overlooking the tiny village of the flesh-eaters. Erban was leagues north of there now and knew his father would not approve but ranging in the northlands came natural to him and his friend Orin.
They were in a new undiscovered land, no one had come this far north and they dares not speak to each other. They moved softly, aware of the underbrush and the overbrush, calculating each move but every quick look down was fed with a long look north. Below them was an ancient village, the outer walls crumbling, the structures inside not fairing much better. The flesheaters scampered amongst the structures with wild abandon.
The flesheasters were savage and viscious but dumb and instinctual. //SHOW ME//
Rumors of the hard wall in the far north, the flesheaters would never go past it.