this is to remind you of the action
Oi, you bedda watch dat pretty mouff o' yors!
(Yeah, I took a break from this for a day or two. I'll do your actions now)
Wolfdchild:
(Roll: 2)
You head back to the crude grouping of groups of people which has begun to be called 'camp.' It doesn't take you long to find the 'command tent' (a flagpole stuck into the ground somewhere near the camp's center) and inform the officer-turned-commander of your condition. Unfortunately, his first wife, his second and third sons, and his first (and only) daughter were all killed by a single werewolf which had plagued their village for years. The encounter ends with you being run out of camp by him and nearly dying when a giant mouth erupts from the ground and almost swallows you whole. You decide it best not to mention your ailment to anyone else.
You then turn to a soldier counting a crate's contents and tell him of the kill and how to find it. He nods at you and says that he'll inform the commander after sending a few men out.
Frelock:
(Roll: 3)
You reign up the horses and walk them over to your men, though they often stop to huff and stamp their foot nervously at some unknown cue. When you reach them, you pick three of your most trust worth surviving men (or, in other words, you pick randomly from those still on their feet) and give them a brief briefing and though they are not afraid to show their displeasure at this assignment, they agree to follow their orders.
After a heated argument with a stingy-looking man counting crates of food, he finally relents to give you a few chunks of meat from an unknown animal some hunter had managed to either kill or find dead somewhere, which seems to squirm rather sickeningly whenever it's touched. He flat-out refuses to give you any of the precious little water they have, though you manage to steal three full waterskins while he isn't looking.
Dwarmin:
(Roll: 3)
You freeze in fear, and as you slowly turn your head left you feel a cold, hard, thumb-less hand fall on your right shoulder and the black, eyeless skull of some large predator creep over your left, inches from your face. You manage to maintain enough presence of mind to bring your crossbow, which you've been clutching like a baby since you left the camp, up to its face and fire a bolt into its skull almost at point-blank range. The bolt bounces off, thankfully away from you, but it startles the creature enough that it recoils away, releasing its hand from your shoulder. You run straight into the crowd of men drawing their swords, who quickly step aside, and shout, "PHALANX FORMA-" but before you can finish the creature, in a display of almost mind-boggling speed, has torn into your ranks and proceeds to tear right through the armor of two men and cut them to ribbons. The others hack at it with mixed success, it appears to take no notice of the attacks and thus does not retaliate, but also appears to be much less significantly affected by blows which would kill any other creature. The black, armor-like plates which dot its body also do not help. In the time it takes you to load another bolt, the thing has reduced its first two victims to an explosion of blood, gore, shredded metal and cloth spreading over twelve feet from where they once stood and has already chosen a new target, which screams that horrid cry of one about to taste death oh so very painfully as it tears into his flesh with unnatural ease.
Ochita:
You hear no fighting occurring.