The spell over Kerbol’s Hollow is breaking and the longer Draven remains wild and free, the weaker it will become. A hero is expected to make tough judgements, weighing the freedoms of a few against that of others, or the life of one, against that of many. But I am no hero, I am just a hypocrite with a double-edged blade.
For it is deeply uncomfortable to admit, but I think if I were Draven I would do just as he. I’d sacrifice this whole damned village and fight to my very last breath rather then live out my days incarcerated like a chained animal in this binding spell of Kerbol’s.
So with every compunctious hack and slash of my blade that cleaves and sunders at the werewolf’s skin and sinew, I hew away more of my own too frayed conscience. And with my final thrust that pierces the werewolves heart, Draven falls lifeless at my feet and I whisper upon the winds to my lost soul, ‘there by the grace of the Eight lay I’.