The jungle is awash with sound. An orchestra of birds, the chatter of chimps, and the drone of a million insects blend into a cacophonous roar. Suddenly a shrieking howl tears through the din, and the jungle sound goes dead. Silence reigns for a time in deference to Old Silverclaws, lord of the burning jungle. A tremendous girallon, by some reports towering up to 20 feet in height, Silverclaws has prowled the jungles for as long as the oldest Stormreach residents can remember. His shining silver-white fur accents his black face and enormous hands. The beast’s otherwise impressive coat is marred with thousands of scars, a legacy of the countless battles fought over his years as the king of Xen’drik’s wilds. He lost an arm five years ago to a fire giant’s axe, but he makes up for the maiming injury with an even greater level of cantankerous ferocity. His approach can be heard a mile off, the sound of splintering trees and his rumbling snarl heralding his coming.