what colour is the bear?

random event The bear indeed gives chase, spurred on by the delicious sound of its tusk tearing through the fabric of Weaver's cloak. Fire snarls towards the beast, making it dodge and dart away, its heavy paws thudding dully into the snow, golden eyes never once leaving the warden. As Weaver runs outside of the broken gates, the creature lunges for her just as she knew it might. Rather than continuing to run, as she pivots with scythe in hand, the ursur leaps through the air. Paws extending and tusks aiming for her heart and lungs, time seems to slow then as life and death fall steadily into the hands of physics. The swing of Weaver's blade versus the trajectory and forward momentum of the bear. The length of its tusks versus the arc of her blade. None watching have the savvy to predict the outcome of course, not until it happens of course. Blood sprays in a warm crescent that steams into the frosty air. Lips curl into a snarl of pain, but there is no scream to follow, for there is no throat to make such a sound. Blood freckles Weaver's face and soaks her torn cloak as her blade sings through the thick skin of the ursur, its tusks falling short of her chest by no more than an inch. Down the creature falls, its face an expression of silent hate even as its lifeblood drained in a steady crimson stream from its neck. From behind the gates, cheers erupt steadily as Weaver's name is chanted from the lips of those assembled. Set against the bleak vista that stretches out long behind her, Weaver is not more than a wisp of determination against all that Halo has to offer. Still, she stands tall. She stands victorious. From behind the Warden, great white wings appear. The sound of their downward motion is a groan in the wake of Weaver's victory—or perhaps the groan comes from the guards instead. The dragon, clever thing that it is, had not simply tossed its meal away and fled. Instead, it hoped to secure for itself an appetizer, and indeed it has done so. Talons covered in ice, pierce through Weaver like a hot knife through snow. Before the guards can do more than draw in their surprised gasps, the dragon has picked up the ursur as well, its powerful wings easily lifting the weight of its meal. A thousand arrows could not bring such a creature down, and though arrows and magic are levied its way, it disappears into the frosty morning with a shocking lack of pomp or circumstance. Victory falls instantly to devastation, and back by the gates, many of the guards are throwing up their breakfasts.