The human couple is standing in front of Locha and Agh, the man is a big hearty farmer holding back is wife. While she is smaller than the man is, she is quite strong. She is also nearly raving at the foxes. Her husband looks as if he has realized things have gone too far.
Larrikan goes to Agh, and realizes he has no idea what to do next. HE is about to talk when everyone looks up at the sound of a door closing.
A few moments later, the door on the far wall opens. Eichemädchen comes in and proclaims, “Our Lord Duke Gralamen.” She then turns and bows to the tall, pale man who enters after her.
Everyone at least bows; some of the humans and all the Shy Folk kneel before the nobleman.
Duke Gralamen is an unusual person. The humans suspect, and the dryads know that he is a half-elf, related by blood to both the fey kingdom and the mortal world. He is a tall, thin man with flowing white hair. He has the unlined, open face of a boy, piercingly blue eyes that appear to look straight in to your soul, a pale complexion, slightly pointed ears, and slightly pointed teeth.
Most people – mortal and fey both – find him unnervingly familiar but different enough to be somehow disturbing.
Most people also try and avoid his judgment, as it follows more fey rules and can seem unfathomable to many humans. He is known for being decisive and quick to resolve issues, for better or for worse.
Gralamen looks slowly around the room. His eyes catch everyone’s as they pass, and the bemused half-smile he usually wears fades to a slight frown. He walks to the ornately carved throne at the end of the room, and settles into it, smoothing his long multilayered, multicolored robes carefully. When he finally speaks, he says, “It has been a while since I saw something quite this upsetting, hasn’t it Eichemädchen?”
“Yes, your Grace.” the dryad replies, moving to stand next to the throne as his advisor, “Just over eighty years.”
“I understand there is a boy injured. Will he be able to travel soon?” asks the Duke.
“The wizard and Wise Woman say he will, sir,” the dryad tells him.
Gralamen stands, and walks over to where the Shy Folk are still kneeling. He sits cross-legged in front of Agh. The Elder tries to bleed less obtrusively.
The half-smile flickers briefly, fading as Gralamen says, “This won’t be right soon without help.” He holds his hands out to Agh, and says, “Come.”
Agh leans close, not quite sure how to proceed, and in considerable pain. The half-elf leans forward too. He slides one hand up Agh’s arm, over his shoulder and around to the back of his neck. He uses his other hand on Agh’s other arm, letting it slide up over the fox’s cheek, and under his muzzle.
With a firm grasp on the back of the old fox’s head, Gralamen grabs Agh’s muzzle and gives a sharp yank. There is a wet tearing sound, a loud crunch, and Agh topples into the Duke’s lap.