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... their simple armor and the soldiers, silently butchered the carcasses of Laughing Wolves – their fur, already stained crimson, now slick with newly spilled blood. They worked with grim efficiency, their movements precise and economical. A low hum of activity, punctuated by the rhythmic *thunk* of cleavers against bone, filled the air.

Suddenly, a tremor ran through the ground. It wasn't the Owlbear stirring; this was different, sharper, more predatory. From the shadows between the falle ...

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