The sounds of rumbling stones cut through the silence of the night like late-hour war drums.
The multitude of werewolves were being carried like rice on a plate, rolling over ranging stones. Their eyes carried both hunger and anxiety, some stumbling slightly while others still questioned the generosity of a clan they had never met before.
Kelion's steps were calculated, just like his thrusts—each step followed a rhythm of hand patterns he kept repeating while walking the streets of the elven clan, controlling multiple rocks with unmatched precision.
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After a few minutes or so, Kelion had transported the werewolves by moving rock. Now, he positioned them at an isolated space closest to the walls, where houses had been deserted because of their closeness to monsters—monsters that were now extinct.
The platform of moving earth stopped just in front of the corner of the wall, the circular stones below dissolving immediately into sand under Kelion's control.
