[ WP ] You are a god that hunts other gods

His direhounds whined, not used to finishing the hunt without the taste of blood. Draegor himself lamented that he must break off pursuit - today was the closest he'd come to the Golden Stag. But he felt the summons in his bones, and had to respect Torann's will. He whistled for his great gyrfalcon, mounted, and soon was soaring toward Torann's throne, where he could already see storm clouds forming. 
 
 By the time he landed, a small crowd of other gods had assembled. Within the shadowy ring of eleven obelisks, Torann sat on his throne, comforting a weeping Meyada at his feet. Draegor recognized most of the faces closest to the throne despite their anxious looks; those farther away were minor spirits, drawn by simple curiosity. Torann looked up at the familiar footsteps. 
 
 `` Draegor, thank you for coming. We have need of your aid. Oboddan has done a great insult to my wife. His mischief has gone too far this time - we need you to track him down. Meyada can explain further.'' 
 
 After a few minutes of listening to her sobs, mixed in with only a few recognizable phrases ( `` great lord,'' `` such beauty,'' `` wonderful,'' `` disgusting'' ), Draegor was no closer to understanding what was going on. 
 
 `` Is it necessary to torture my sister any further? We've wasted too much time already!'' This from Grungex, mailed and armed for war. `` Let me and my minions strike! We will capture this no-good prankster no matter where the Valnaeora hide him.'' 
 
 This outburst brought tittering protests from the Valnaeor sisters, who promised that they had no idea what their cousin had planned or where he might be now. Torann slammed his warhammer onto the flagstone, silencing the crowd. He turned to leave the ring, gesturing for Draegor to follow him. 
 
 `` My friend, you see what my rule has come to? Any excuse to squabble, and grasp at others' realms! This latest crisis started when Oboddon cast a hex on a mortal man, one of my wife's favorites...'' He avoided Draegor's eyes. `` He is a petty lordling of a small fief on the western slopes of Mount Forfad. Find him, and it will lead you to Oboddon. Bring him here. By then maybe I'll know what to do with him...'' 
 
 Draegor flew south, joined by his direhounds on the way. As they approached the mountain, his hounds - bred for unmatched bravery - shied away. Beginning to worry, Draegor urged them on. Soon enough, he too could tell what troubled his hounds: a rank odor that grew ever stronger as they neared a small castle on the mountain slopes. Draegor took pity and ordered them back, wrinkling his nose and continuing on himself. He passed a scattering of people, all of whom seemed to be fleeing the same young man. He was handsome enough, Draegor assumed, and well-dressed for a country lord, but his confusion at his serfs' and courtiers' flight was plain to see. Although he did not envy any mortal caught in one of Oboddon's tricks, Draegor thought he was at least lucky not to smell his own cursed odor. 
 
 There was no hope in picking up Oboddon's trail anywhere near this fool, so Draegor backtracked with his hounds. Miles away, once they were far enough from the source of the smell, they circled until his best hound stiffened, pointing further south. To Draegor's annoyance, Oboddon's trail led toward the City of Gwyn. He should have expected such a ruse. The city's buildings and alleys would shield him from Ylvyn's sunsight. Grungex's armies would never pick him out of the crowds. Oboddon probably assumed Draegor's tracking would be of no use so far from his forests. But there, he would be wrong... With a whispered spell, Draegor faded his hounds into mist, invisible to the sight of mere mortals. They led him onward into Gwyn, the spirit of the chase taking over god and hound alike.
