“I met a Gray Wolf, once.” said the old grizzled man at the bar. He drank deeply from his mug of beer, swallowed, and wiped his mouth with a dirty sleeve.
‘You never did,’ said the buxom young girl. She was wiping the bar with a rag, with little conviction.
“I did. I was tradin’ furs up in the North, and he was lookin’ for some kinda ice beasts or… can’t remember.” He looked at his mug accusingly and took another gulp of beer. “He wore a wolfskin, bigger than any wolf you ever saw. Big scars, like clawmarks.” he ran his clawed hand diagonally across his face, grimacing. “One dead grey eye, the other as near as black as I’ve seen. Scared me shitless, he did.” He finished his ale and waved the mug at her.
She filled his mug, and he grabbed it, beer slopping over the rim. He raised it and said, “To the Gray Wolves.” She raised a solemn toast in return. “To the Gray Wolves.” And they drank.