He stood with the folks of the forest realm. Though his left arm seemed whole again, it was a glamour of the pixies of the realm. The nymphs didn’t care for him hiding their gift, but it was for what was to come.
He stood above the many denizens of Thistlemere, sadly not as diverse as it was before the time of Sophie and Tolerith. He raised his fist high, dispelling the glamour for now, showing the Thistlefist. “I am your Keeper, and Guardian. I am meant to stand for the way of life for Thistlemere… And our way is war!” He bellowed out, a man among beasts, but more of a monster than any. If they where the regular animals of the glade, he was the unspeakable horror hidden in the shadows of the cave. With him on the pedestal where Elves, Satyrs, Nymphs and Smurfs. These where the people of Thistlemere after all, few other humans.
Was he human still?
He looked to them all and stepped down, heavy foot falls from his leather boots, leaving imprints in the dirt. He took up a war banner that was made for him, a bear wrapped in vines of thorns. “We shall start with tribes of Firbolgs! They will join under our banner! Or we’ll crush them!” He roared out the words, his ‘war form’ slightly showing as his body partially changed. His nature beyond just a barbarian now, beyond druidic and shamanistic. He was root and bone. Fang and thorn. Vine and claw.
He was the embodiment of the wild nature of the people of Thistlemere. He continued his speech, “After them, we will take the beastfolk! The Centaur, Minotaur, Serpent folk! All of the primal forces of the Southern Continent will fall to the war banner of Thistlemere! And they shall join us! I will take them through fair combat, our by raid and force!”
And with his war path set… The worse part is… he was following the will of the wildlands, of the forests of the Southern Continent. Eat or be eaten, hunt or be the hunted. He was the predator, and these tribes, his prey.