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“They can not stand up to us in open battle Astrid, they couldn’t when we landed and they can’t now. They aren’t trained or equipped to fight Lions toe to toe, but their skirmishers will tear us to pieces if we have a long march. They’ve lived and fought in these lands for centuries. They have adapted their tactics to their ancestral foes well.”

The masters of the Order were all studying a map of Mardrun, not even the Ulven had fully mapped the continent but that which was known was on display before them. On such knowledge did the future lie.

“Mordok and Ulven are worthy foes Folkvar, as I recall you have the scars to prove it. I healed them, I should know. I’ll bring the tea.” The Runemaster retrieved the steaming pot and poured cups for her compatriots.

“Believe me, I have not forgotten. I did not mean to diminish Mordok or Ulven battle skill or ferocity, just that we fight differently. Neither has ever faced tight formations of heavy infantry, supported by skilled archers and engines. Have any of you ever known either race to use a siege machine?”

His question was met with silence.

“Exactly. Ulven towns aren’t built to withstand a siege, either their warriors will fight off the Mordok raid or they break out before the supplies vanish. It’s simply the way things have been done here. Raid followed by counter-raid. I’ve talked to enough Ulven among our allies to know that the last time they faced an army of Mordok was decades ago. It rampaged through Ulven lands for at least a season until enough warriors were gathered to stop it. The simple fact is that the Ulven don’t wage war, not by our definition.”

Folkvar takes a sip of the tea and traces the thin lines on the map.

“Raid, counter raid, repeat and so on. They don’t besiege the Mordok, they don’t fight pitched battles. Their history is one long skirmish. We force them to fight us our way. We attack their towns, surround them and reduce them. If they try and bait us, we ignore them. As long as we keep our supplies and support troops in the center of the column and don’t enter any terrain with an ‘ambush here’ sign they will have to face us to stop us. We can repair our armor and heal ourselves on the move, as long as we have food…”

He moves to the part of the map that signifies the lands of the Greytide.

“The most Greytide will be able to do is slow us down and save their people. Non-combatants may flee but most of their warriors will want to stand and defend their homes. We will crush them in a pitched battle and we will give them no other choice.”

He takes another sip of tea and tips over a few wooden markers on the map.

“This is all irrelevant. The war will not stay between us and Greytide. If it happens it will be all the Colonies and all the Ulven, with the Mordok thrown in for good measure. The Dead never crushed me because I could trade land for time, falling back to a better position, retreating when necessary. We simple don’t have any room to maneuver here. The land we have is home, we have nothing to trade for time. If this becomes a race war they will simply isolate us and starve us out. Not being able to break open our walls doesn’t mean they can’t win.”

Astrid looks up from the map. “Well Warmaster, aren’t you just…”

A harried looking young messenger, perhaps ten, bows and stumbles over to Master Anundar’s place in the corner. The boy hands a letter over, bows again, and leaves. Anundar open the letter and begins to read, his expression turning darker and darker.

“The Runemaster steps forward first. “Well, what is it?”

I’ll just read it: “A Lich has been sighted between New Aldoria and New Hope, a old man calling himself Boomhowler managed to warn a small trading post and fight off an attack. Mordok raised but killed quickly, stopped a ritual the beast was performing. Lich escaped, current location unknown. Ulven know.”

The Masters shared a stunned silence for some time. After a time Folkvar stood up and looked at Astrid: “When do I march, and with how many?”

“Forty Lions and as many Eagles as can be spared. All assets in the area now have a new focus. Send word to…everyone, including Aedan. His mission is still his priority, now we must have peace with the Ulven. It’s not against who we thought, but we march”

“Make sure all of them know. Never again.”

“Not here, not again.”

Bryech SavageFang

---

Bryech walked into the village with Kreiger, he stood close to him as this was the first time in a year he had come into contact with people other than the Bloodfangs since he left his home in search of his father. The noises were not strange to him as he has spent the first few years of his life in a town much like this.
“You’re going to need a sword.” Kreiger grunted at him with no emotion in his voice as he handed him a coin purse heavy with silver.
“This should be more than plenty, Don’t buy anything else but a sword and make sure it’s crafter is respectable.” Bryech took the coin purse and stowed it in his belt which was just a piece of twine which was fraying slightly
“I have some business to attend to so I’ll meet you back here at nightfall, don’t be late.” and with that he was off to some corner of the outpost.

Bryech looked around he was confused he hadn’t experienced contact with other Ulven for quite sometime let alone Humans and Syndar. He searched the outpost and found a blacksmith he was an Ulven but Bryech still had a hard time conversing with him at first, but the swords looked sturdy and deadly so he bought one and went of to the place where Kreiger told him to meet.
The Sun Horse hadn’t even brought the sun to the middle of the sky. Bryech climbed a tree just outside of the outpost and listened to the sounds of nature and enjoyed the peacefulness of it all. He remembered his best days of his early travels when it was just him and the animals, the deer roaming the wilds and the wolves howling at the moon. He then remembered the winter and the horrors of the storms it brought with. He shook off the daydreams and searched back into reality.
He still had plenty of time to kill so he went out into the wilderness to explore before he began his travels with Kreiger. After about twenty minutes or so he stopped walking and climbed a tree nearby trying to get a better view of his surroundings. His new sword was impossible to hold in his twine belt so he held the handle and climbed nearly cutting off his fingers twice in the process. once he reached a decent height he looked around he couldn’t have been twelve feet off of the ground but he could see quite far. His moment of calm was interrupted by a loud “THWACK!” in the brush behind him. He strained his ear to hear whoever it was.

“Dammit, where did it go?” It was a woman’s voice. He watched the ground around him and an Ulven women appeared out of the brush, she looked to be about the same Bryech. She had a bow strung across her back and about six arrows with her. She walked forward a few feet and then looked around. She seemed to be angry and Bryech could tell why there was a red mark running across her face.
“Damn thorn branches.” she grumbled. She started walking again. Bryech guessed she was looking for something, most likely hunting. Bryech decided to follow her.
She went deep into the woods and Bryech was sure they were moving away from safety and into danger.
Eventually she stopped and sat on the ground and started eating some dried meat. Bryech was about to climb down for a closer look when he heard a twig snap in the distance. His eyes shot toward the noise and there in the middle of the valley The girl and Bryech had traveled into was a small group of Mordok, maybe only three of them but they were well armed and moving towards the girl. Bryech felt an anger swell inside of him, the Mordok had constantly hunted him during his time alone and he had nearly died many times at their hands, they were the only beings in the world whom he hated more than his former pack. He looked at the Mordok and then at his new sword.
“The ground will flood with their blood.” Bryech growled. Bryech climbed down swiftly from the tree and made his way to the girl. She still hadn’t picked up on the Mordok or Bryech but that was about to change. Bryech quickly but quietly made his way over to the girl, he walked behind her and put a hand over her mouth. She then reacted by biting him in the hand he grimaced but did not let go as she started thrashing and Bryech growled at her
“There is a pack of Mordok within shooting distance so I need you to be quiet!” She stopped thrashing and he released her, looking at the damage she had done to his hand.
“You could’ve told me in a better way you know.” She said as she took her bow off of her shoulder and nocked an arrow.
“Well it worked at keeping you quiet for the most part.” Bryech replied.
“What’s the plan?” She asked as she tried to get a view from the brush.
“You distract them and when they surround you I come in from behind and start a counter-attack.” he replies.
“That’s a terrible plan, you know that right.” She replied.
“Yeah I’ve had worse.” He replied crouching down getting a view of the Mordok as they searched the area, no doubt having found their scent.
“Name one plan that is worse than this one.” The girl growled as she readied herself to run.
“Me, a medium sized rock and three Mordok.” Bryech replied.

The girl ran out of the bush at breakneck speed as Bryech watched from the brush. She didn’t move them very far but she did wound one of them. About ten yards away she was surrounded and they were slowly moving in, Bryech started running toward them. The Mordok noticed him too late as he rammed his sword into the back of one’s knee. When it dropped down he put his left hand on its chin and twisted its neck with a fluid motion. It didn’t kill it right away, but it did distract it while Bryech followed up with his new blade, finishing it. A Mordok to his right pulled an axe over his shoulder to strike but an arrow hit him in the chest, and before he could react a the girl swung her bow and made solid contact with the creatures face. It stumbled, swinging blindly. The girl rolled out of the way of the sword. Bryech jumped forward driving his own sword into the Mordok’s chest. Another one of the beasts grabbed him from behind. The Mordok stabbed Bryech in the side with a knife, Bryech let out growl of anger and slammed the back of his head into the Mordok’s face causing it to stumble. Its grip loosened and Bryech jumped free and turned to face the Mordok. Blood was running from it’s nose and from the hole in Bryech’s side, Bryech ran forward and tackled the Mordok, he pinned it down and started punching in a wild rage. The creature clawed at him and bit at him. They struggled until the girl darted up, ending the struggle with her dagger.
“You can stop now, I think it’s dead.” The girl commented. He stood up and looked around and he saw the bodies of the Mordok lying motionless. The girl pulled an arrow from one of the corpses.
“Lets get some wood, we need to burn these bastards.” Bryech said panting.

The two warriors stood in front of the great fire currently burning the bodies of the Mordok they killed. “My name’s Bryech by the way.” Bryech said holding out his hand to the girl.
“Echo, nice to meet you.” They gripped arms like true Ulven and stared at the pyre. The sun was beginning to reach the far horizon and would soon set. The fire died down and the ash was being blown up by the wind. Echo interrupted the silence
“You fought well out there.”
“Thanks you too.” Bryech replied grimacing as the wound in his side throbbed. It had stopped bleeding for the most part and the knife didn’t seem to have any poison on it, so he would bandage it later. The situation was awkward for him. He hadn’t had much interaction with people for a while so conversation was awkward especially with this new friend. They walked back to the outpost just as night was falling.
“Until next time I guess.” Bryech said.
“Yeah, I’ll see you again I’m sure, hopefully we’re still on the same side.” Echo replied. They went their separate ways but Bryech had a feeling they’d meet again. The days events had given him all the proof he needed, that his new life was a good one, that today was a new day.

Ylsa Stormherald

Delivered to Raskolf Vakr via borrowed messenger falcon the day after Wayward Inn caught fire:

Dearest Brother of my Mate,

We are well, but no longer in the place you left us. It has burned to the ground (sadly, with my favorite sword and mug inside it). I hope this letter reaches you before you reach the wreckage.
Our mutual friends returned to us with word of Clan Grimwards’ decision, shortly before Greytide came to deliver the message themselves. There was a battle with our newly-declared enemies. We had superior numbers but inferior armor, and they knew not to come to the open where we could surround them. It was only through the efforts of a very skilled healer and a certain clever little girl that we survived. The healer was unable to tend to us all before the second wave broke through our walls, however. We had to flee to a neighboring village, leaving our previous shelter in flames.
The news of war is grave news indeed, but not all hope is lost. Two of the former sun-soaked pack chose to stand by our side in battle, as well as one who was nearly sent to meet the Wolf by his own pack when he chose not to follow their path.
Our somewhat bolstered party will make for the same village that you were headed to as of your last parting with our mutual friends, once our wounds heal enough to travel the distance. If you are not there, the company will most likely break for now. I will take your family to the lands of my born Pack – we will be safe there, and my kin can spread word to our allies faster and more securely than any other.

Be well,
Your Cloud-spotter

P.S. If you see our quiet friend, please be sure to tell him of the sun-soaked ones’ loyalty to us. There is unpleasant history between him and them, and he departed before our enemies arrived.

Drifa just wanted to go home, wherever that was.

The refugees’ flight from the burning shell of the Wayward Inn had begun to develop a nightmarish quality in her mind; the line between reality and memory blurring with each passing hour. She looked over at her friend, Lucia, who sat blinking wearily into the fire, still dressed in the tattered remains of her finery. In her mind’s eye she could see the stark horror on her friend’s face as the Greytides came after them, the afterimage of Lucia’s spell seared blue into her thoughts like a lightning strike. Hair stood up on the back of her neck as memory took her.

The sounds of battle filled her ears; the ringing of steel on steel, the nauseating crunch of steel striking bone, the pursuing pack’s mocking laughter. The hoarse bellow of the Greytide turncoat, Rogar Shadowfang, as he ordered her to run, to leave, to not turn back no matter what she heard. She did what she was told….

As she stumbled down the brush-covered hill into the marsh something changed in her, something buried deep within shifted and she could run no longer. Tears welled up, spilling down her cheeks, leaving pale streaks through the grime. Rage followed. Swallowing her fear, she called out her challenge, refused to run any farther. She turned with every intention of murdering her pursuers, dropping her leather toolbag and gripping her weapons with sweat-slick hands. There were too many, and Drifa was no swordsman. She could feel the icy rush of the swamp water as she lost her shoe in the mire, and the numbing terror that seized her heart as she felt them closing in. Drifa raised her borrowed sword…

Harsh laughter as they paced around her fallen body, enjoining her to call for help, call her companions back to save her. She screamed her refusal, her voice breaking as the blood seeped from her wounded arm. Then Rogar, seemingly back from the dead, helping her, bandaging her, and another frantic flight through the forest, Lucia dodging and casting her spells, the Greytides pursuing, cornering them again, Drifa’s less-than-able hands raising her weapons once more in mindless terror. A desperate contact and then blood, so much blood, pouring from her chest with each breath as she lay in the mud, shaking hands wrapping bloody bandages in a vain effort to stem the tide, and Rogar again, fighting off his former packmates despite his many wounds, giving her time to get to her feet and stumble on, stumble until they were far enough into Nightriver territory to keep the Greytides from following them.

She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, each inhalation like shards of ice piercing her lungs. Her limbs felt weighed down, dead weight dragging her down into the marsh with each labored step. It would be easier to lie down and die but she was too stubborn to do so. She struggled on, fresh blood welling through the bandages on her chest and arm, her shoes and skirts soaked with mud and swamp water and worse. She couldn’t stop. None of them could stop, not until they reached Nightriver territory and the welcome sight of a village…

The weary smith’s apprentice blinked and the memory faded, slowly letting reality in. There were no Greytides here, not yet. It was over, for now. Beside her were the rest of the survivors, tended by members of the Nightriver clan. Badly wounded and near dead from exhaustion, her compatriots sat staring into the fire with the bemused expressions of those who had found themselves gifted with lives they had thought to lose.

Across from her the two Goldmanes sat leaning against one another, their eyes shadowed and their faces grimy. Drifa was thankful she’d aided the taller one after her honor duel with Harlok; there would be plenty of death soon enough if Clan Grimward had their way. There was no need to rush it along. She’d liked them in the Inn before the Longfangs returned with their dire news, even if they were kind of quiet, and she was glad that she could still like them.

Honor duels. Pfah! An excuse for more fighting, Drifa thought, as she looked away from the flames and into the darkness of the trees. The dead were walking, walking and killing and making more dead walk, and the Ulven were fighting amongst themselves. How unproductive was that? The Ulven needed every warm body hale and hearty to fend off the undead hordes, and the Mordok that were sure to follow.

Scavengers! She turned her head and spit into the fire, causing it to sizzle. Nothing but scavengers. Mordok fed off the unfortunate. Like vultures, only more unnatural. The Unclean Ones were a blight upon Gaia, and she could easily see them using this situation to their advantage.

No, they would have to put aside all of this ‘war’ nonsense if they wanted to survive. The People of the Wolf could not afford chaos and disunity, either amongst themselves or with their ‘allies’, the humans and Syndar.

So far Drifa had met more good colonists than bad. She’d liked the human, what was his name?… William, that was it. From Vandregon. He’d come to the Wayward Inn with the clanless Ulven, Venator, to try to rally an army. She felt bad that she hadn’t recognized the clanless one after the skirmish with the Greytides, but with blood thick in the air filling her nostrils and the shock of the attack she’d been turned all kinds of widdershins. She’d actually thought he was a Greytide, at first. How embarrassing!

On the tail of that thought, an uncomfortable idea began to push its way to the forefront of her brain. She tried to squelch it, but it kept popping up, like an excited puppy that couldn’t sit still. After a brief internal struggle she let it up, examined it, and shuddered.

Drifa Blackfrost was going to have to use a sword.

Dear Gaia, she was going to have to try to learn to fight effectively, or else she was going to be a liability the Watchwolves could ill afford. After years of avoiding wielding a weapon, the thought made her cringe. Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment, and she scrubbed one dirty hand over her face to hide it.

They didn’t give her a weapon, and for good reason. Drifa was more likely to cut off her own foot than damage an opponent. She had all the elegance of a drunken cow, and about the same mass. But somehow she had to turn that inebriated bovine into a murder machine, and do it quickly, or else she would find herself at the mercy of other Ulven who would either aid her or kill her. Neither option seemed very appealing. She already owed her life to the Greytide turncoat, and the idea of that debt being given to even more people shamed her. Her life wasn’t worth that much.

She coughed, bloody foam springing to her lips. She wiped it away absently, lost in her thoughts as the fire burned down and one by one her compatriots were led away to their rest by Nightriver healers. Patiently she waited, until the fire burned down to coals and her thoughts turned to sleep.

Beneath all of her worries, her thoughts, and her memories, was a deep-seated almost subconscious fear that all the treaties with the colonists of Newhope couldn’t banish. What if her people were being used? What if the humans were manipulating them, turning them on each other like feral dogs, making their goal of conquering Mardun that much easier?

What if Clan Grimward was right?

Lucia Coinin

For as long as Lucia could remember, the Ulven people had been at peace with one another. Sure, there’d been a squabble here and there, but nothing more. Her mother, the infamous Brigh, had made sure she knew how to wield a sword like any true Ulven. But Lucia had never dreamed, not even in her darkest nightmares, that one day she would raise her hand to another Ulven.

As she sat by the fire, still nursing her wounds from that day, her mind drew her back, into the swamp-ridden forest. She’d fallen behind by no fault of her own; cut off from the fleeing group by two of the Greytide warriors. She’d hidden then, much to her shame. But she knew that if she didn’t, they would show her no mercy. She’d thought they were moving on, was almost certain of it, when the last remaining warrior, the leader so it seemed, spotted her through the trees.

She could still hear the bloodlust in his battle cry; still feel her blood run cold as he rushed towards her with murder in his eyes. She’d done it then, used her newly trained powers to push him back into a tree, stunning him and stopping his rush. She’d kept pushing him, over and over again, back into the swamp. But when her mana was finally depleted, she’d felt lost and utterly helpless. Until, as she looked into the eyes of the advancing Greytide, she recalled the words of her mother, “You cannot always be prepared for battle. You can try, but you will eventually fail. In these times of need, look to your mother, look to Gaia, for aid. Let her be your sword & shield. She will protect you in your darkest hour. Never forget, she is always with you.” And Lucia did exactly as her mother had said, moving to put one of the forest’s trees between herself and her enemy. She’d used it, took up Gaia as a shield to protect her from him then. The tree blocked the path of his spear, helped her dodge his repeated attempts to skewer her. Eventually she grew tired and could no longer dodge his blows. It was only then that she cried out for help. But it was too late and the Greytide leader stabbed her, in the stomach, the only time he’d touched her that day. Finally Drifa & the wounded Greytide turncoat, two of her group who had also fallen behind, caught up to her and kept him away from her long enough for her to run, slowly dripping blood onto the forest floor. She’d made it to the village, but just barely ahead of the Greytide attackers.

She’d cursed them that day, screaming to Gaia for vengeance. She’d never done it before, never truly damned anyone before. She didn’t even know if it would work. But she did know one thing for certain; never in her life had Lucia put so much hatred into her words. It burned in her blood at this very moment, her stomach aching in remembrance of the Greytide’s blade. They would pay for what they’d done; they’d pay dearly. She would see to it personally.

Raskolf Vakr

Dear Priestess Ravensmark,

I regret to inform you that the portents you read on the winds from the West were true. The colonists have indeed brought their doom with them. Hungry ghosts walk on Mardrun. I have not only seen these abominations with my own eyes, but they have tasted my steel. They are formidable foes, and much faster than they look. They must be burned quickly or they will recover from even the most grievous wounds. They are led by a powerful spellcaster who is called “The Lich”. We tracked it and confronted it in combat, but it used foul sorceries to escape.

I know that my past disgrace forbids me from recommending any strategic or tactical advice to the Council of Elders, but perhaps you, my Priestess, may suggest that we dispatch the Eyes and the Ears of the Watchwolves to the West in force. The hungry ghosts will have difficulty finding bodies in our lands, thanks to the grace and wisdom of our sacred traditions, but I fear that the portents you sensed on the West wind could also be something yet to come, perhaps from the sea.

Also, my Priestess, I was thinking perhaps you may consider making a motion to form an elite inter-clan war pack, with the mission of traveling west and recruiting the most stalwart warriors from across the Ulven nation. In these most troubling times, the need for unity is greater than it has ever been in several lifetimes. It is for this reason, that I was hoping that perhaps you could recommend that this pack include not only the best of the Ulven nation, but representatives from the Humans and Syndar as well. Please forgive me if I have overstepped my bounds, but I was humbled tonight like I have not been since the day I became your Warder. We know nothing of these hungry ghosts, and we will not be able to fight them by ourselves. We are a proud people, but I of all Ulven warriors now and ever, know firsthand, how foolish pride can be. I know the damage it can do. Tonight, when the situation was bleak, a frightened and desperate group of people looked to me for guidance and leadership. I addressed the situation in the most logical way, and made a sound decision in the best of judgment. It was the wrong decision, and it almost cost us our lives. I made the wrong decision because I don’t understand this new enemy, and we, as a people, will not learn everything there is to know until it is too late. We cannot stand alone. Tonight, I learned something about the colonists. Yes, these Humans and Syndar carry their doom with them. They failed their people, and made terrible mistakes in the past, but as you once told me, my beloved Priestess, some things can only be learned the hard way. In New Aldoria, I told the Crown Prince that I didn’t understand humanity. Now I do. They are like me. We must stand together. It is our Last Hope.

Your Faithful Servant,

Raskolf Vakr, the Voice of the Watchwolves

Aeden Haleth VonHorst

“And why didn’t your friends send word back, Captain Von Horst?”

Aedan Von Horst stood opposite the Masters of The Order, separated from them by the map covered table that dominated The Order’s Command Chamber.

“I don’t know Master Astrid, but it was probably the weather. Paviken was beset by fierce storms most of last month and the owner of the towns’ messenger hawks was unwilling to risk his birds in the gale. It’s entirely possible they tried to send word and it simply didn’t get through.”

“Thank you for your report, Captain. You are dismissed.”

Aedan saluted smartly and performed a sharp facing movement. After he had left, Warmaster Folkvar and Runemaster Astrid leaned down to study the maps upon the table. Scout Master Anundar looked on from the shadows.

“I’m glad he didn’t make it to the Peace Summit with the Grimwards.” said the Warmaster,” We’re going to need all the trained men we have in the coming days.”

“True enough,” chuckled Anundar, “though I would be curious to know how many Grimwards he would have taken with him had he been there.”

“If the cub could learn to control his Fury,” remarked the Runemaster, “he would be a good Lion. Frankly I’m not even sure why he’s a Captain, but that’s a debate for another day. Need I read this next report, or can I assume that our troops have had no luck finding the Beast?”

Folkvar removed his cloak and tossed it onto a chair.

“I expected it to have minions enough that it would aggressively hunt us like these abominations did on Faedrun, but instead it retreated back into lands controlled by the Mordok. We don’t have enough men to risk such a venture, so I pulled my Lions back. Apparently the Mordok don’t like the Beast any more then we do and are keeping it in check. The Eagles that marched out with me stayed in the area to keep us informed. I think we should use this opening while we can, concentrate our forces against our new foes.”

He dragged the map showing Grimward and Greytide lands over to his side of the table and started tracing roads and rivers with his fingers.

“They have turned what could have been a nightmare scenario into something… manageable. They even managed to attack four other Clans and give us allies! As far as wars go, it could have been much worse.”

Anundar was suddenly by the fireplace, retrieving the whistling teapot and filling everyone’s cups. No one had seen or heard him move, but the other Masters were used to that.

“I agree, Master Folkvar, but isn’t the Lich our top priority?”

“The Beast is beyond our grasp for now.” said Folkvar, “All we can do is watch and wait for an opportunity. As dangerous as he is, we simply do not have the resources to hunt for him and defend ourselves from the Ulven at the same time. Grimward and Greytide are the more immediate problem. We need a way to even the odds a bit…”

Anundar reclaimed his seat in the shadow.

“I may be able to help with that.” he said, sipping his tea, “Two of the local Ulven Clans, the Bluefaces and Bonecrunchers, have pledged their support. There’s bad-blood between them and Grimward that goes back generations. Their Clans are small, but they know the area very well and have an axe to grind. They want in.”

The Runemaster began to say something but Anundar raised his had into the light.

“I have even better news.” he said, “They agreed to help my Eagles learn some new tricks, to even the odds in the woods a bit. They also passed on a Grimward weakness for us.”

The chamber was silent. Anundar grinned and calmly sipped his tea.

“Spit it out, you ass!” shouted the Runemaster,

Anundar took his time with his tea, and casually raised a hand to gesture against the impatience of the other Masters.

“Grimward has no defense against attacks from the water.” he said, finally, “None. Our warships could operate with impunity.”

The Warmaster leaned over the map and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“Can they run shallow enough to use the rivers?

“Our newest vessels are Aldorian in design. They could run upon a wet sponge.”

“Really…?”

*

A week later, survivors from a small fishing village began to trickle into neighboring Grimward towns. They told a strange tale of how one peaceful morning was destroyed by flaming rocks coming from the morning haze. They told of how soon after the barrage, heavily armored humans bearing the sigil of a white lion on a red tabard came marching out of the mist, as if from the lake itself. The town’s garrison fought bravely but was disorganized and caught completely by surprise. They fell with glory.

Any who surrendered were allowed gather some supplies and leave. As the column filed out of the town they watched it burn. The humans torched it all, crops, homes… Even the windmill was toppled and the cistern filled with rubble.

The greatest insult was the towns founding stone, placed generations ago by the first settler. The Mordok had never managed to destroy or befoul it, but the invaders saw its significance. They built a fire around it and then splashed it with cold water, cracking it asunder.

As they retreated, the refugees passed pickets of Ulven and Humans further out in the woods. The men wore no sigils, but the Ulven had blue warpaint on their faces. The Bluefaces had sided with the colonists, against their own kind.

Many of the refugees had also been given a slip of paper by the men. All the slips showed three crude drawings of Grimward Clan Leader Haygreth and Father Aegeus in profile. The first was of the priest offering his hand to Haygreth in friendship. The second showed Haygreth cutting the old man down in cold blood. The third drawing showed a burning town, and in the center was Haygreths broken body with a Human warrior standing over it. The Human was depicted wearing a Lions tabard, and holding the battle standard of The Order. The triumphant knight was flanked by colonists and Ulven holding many banners, all standing together.

The bottom of the slip had the following messages written in common trade languages and Ulven:

”Your leaders attacked a mission of peace, thus bringing this doom upon you. We will not stop until those butchers are brought to justice for their crimes. Spread the word to your people, that if they surrender, they will be treated well and not harmed. “

“Haygreth Grimward, face us with what little courage you didn’t use to kill a defenseless old man. Don’t forget your pet Greytide either. You know where to find us.”

*

Yawn Longfang
Magrat Farwalker
Stanrick Longfang

The mind is a weapon. The thought was still new to Yawn. Sure he understood the mind affected the body. Had learned to stare horror and terror down and smash its skull in response rather then run for dear life screaming. That he understood. The body was a weapon. Training was it maintenance. All weapons needed maintenance. Scour the rust from the metal. Add a little oil to keep the wood and steal bright and keep the rust off. Check the handles fitting, the hilt, the head int he case of maces, and the pommels fit. A little polishing never hurt, keeps the wood bright protects it from wet rot. Magrat had knowledge, was a fierce archer, and a good friend. Yawn would learn all he could of the Lost. He would try to learn to call on the spirits. And if it failed it would not be because a Longfang warrior could not put his own mind to heel, he would not fail for lack of effort on his part.
He sat, cross legged on the cool matted grass of the outpost. Slowed his breathing keeping it deep and even. Closed his eyes, and tried to let his mind empty. Felt the sun warm his tunic. Heard the wind through the grasses. For a time he swore he could feel the earth itself turning… The grass beneath him. And there his mind slipped his will. The grass… Burnt in places. Slick in places with the blood and gore of Ulven and Mordok alike. Gunthers screams as he was carried off thrashing and biting. Yawn clenched his fist. Despite himself he trembled with rage. Of see the knife, seeing Rill the intend mark. The mad rush to break the hand the held it, and knowing he was too far to make the difference. Of his fellow youngling diving between knife and Rill. The cut he took across his upper arm from having lost sight of his opponent. The sound of Stanrick sword find it soft marks. Of Zucs glaive raining heavy blows across shield and flesh alike hewing anything foolish enough to come into reach. Rills own blade and shield, of Rill lashing out with both equal, breaking and cutting any target that came near. Of the sensation of the mace and shovel in his hand. The maces thud, the shovels clang, finding the throat with it dull blade, soft bits vulnerable to its point. The impact singing back along the handles to his arms. The fury that filled his blood. The battle rage, the need to break, to maim, to kill what had hurt. What had taken from his pack. And yet, killing, maiming… did nothing to fill the void, no matter how many fell under his cudgels. No matter how many foe he fell, it would never bring back those lost…

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Magrat kept a carful ,yet discreet watch on Yawn. To be honest, she had never trained another and she had no intention of screwing this one up. She had made a bargain with one of the local spirits to keep an eye on him, and when the little thing tugged on her consciousness, she went to find him immediately.
She found him, partially hidden in the grass. She watched his hands grip and tremble at nothing, and the little spirit gave her an idea of where he had gone. She paused, remembering when her teacher had pulled her from her mind, and what he had said to her. She waited a moment, before laying a hand on his shoulder, and called his name softly.
“Yawn.”
He snapped out of his reverie, and for a moment, she saw the rage and the pain in his eyes.
“The path to the world of the spirits is through ourselves.” She said quietly, and without preamble, sitting down next to him and facing the swamp as he did.
“We must first navigate the mire that is our hearts and spirits before we may come out the other side. We must learn truths about ourselves and our pasts, and these truths will not be comfortable. But they give insights to ourselves, of where we were, and where we are going. And why we are going there. When we stand before our totems for the first time, we are naked. They will see all of our anger, our pain, our rights and wrongs, our joys and sorrows. If we are not at peace with ourselves, they will know, and when they test you, you will fail.”
She toyed with a strand of grass absently.
“Will you share with me what you saw?”

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Yawn eyes stayed wild for a few moments, he looked down. “I was.. here. The night of the attack. The night before the bastards arrived.” He swallowed. “I was lashing out. Reliving the fight. The lose. The younling we lost when he threw himself between Rill and the dagger, if I’d been a half step faster or thrown the shovel maybe.. But not even in the vision do I change my actions, Gunther carried off screaming, and I want to make them pay. I want to hurt.” His eyes equal parts fury and sadness. “I want to break, maim, gouge, and crush. I want them to feel all they’d inflicted and more. And I want to feel nothing while I do it but the mace and shovels vibrations shocking back up my arms. I want to pile the corpses… Though I know no matter how many I kill, no mater how many I burn it will no more put breath back into our lost then my regrets.” Yawns shoulders relaxed his hand stayed closed in fists but he was no longer clenching.

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Stanrick was sitting on the other side of the wall, had been for some time smoking his pipe. He was hearing every word knew what was happening, and was torn. Yawn was his brother, a longfang. He had also felt his pain. The snow had melted and stanrick tried to help his brother but now he was losing him. Not in death, but rather his spirit. If he kept down the path he was heading the great wolf would not know his name. But what kept his silence was magrat if the pack knew she was teaching him… He didn’t want to think about it. “that dumb whelp all he thinks of is him self.” he mumbled under his breath. Perhaps if his eyes would change or his fangs come in then he would come to his right mind.

Stanrick Longfang

Stanrick had been wandering for days, it had been two weeks since he had split off from the rest of the Longfangs. Magrat and Yawn had headed off to the out post and he didn’t know where the others had gone off. He had decided to take the lone way home and see to it that the outlying villages knew of the now very real civil war. His leg had healed nicely but hurt still even more so before the rain. He had spent a week at a farm in a clearing that was home to some humans that went out to live on their own. What a sight it must have been for the farmer, a man named Gavros, seeing the blood soaked Ulven limp out of the woods at the time his wound had reopened and he had fought at least a dozen Mordok on his way. The man was kind enough to let him rest and repair his armor. His wife even washed the blood out of his tunic. All this in exchange for some help at the farm splitting wood. Now he was not far from home maybe a day or two, and he stopped keeping count of the Mordok he had killed, burning each one still not sure if they would get back up. Was it all a trick? He didn’t know what to think the walking dead had been on his mind a lot as of late, before they went their own ways Imara had told him about her experiences with the undead. The more he heard the more he respected the humans and syndar he called friend. Truly if this plague was removed from Gaia’s earth then the deeds would ring in the great wolfs ears. But this civil war was madness not all the humans were good but to declare an out right war on them was foolish. His blade had tasted the blood of Human, Mordok, Syndar, Undead, and now Ulven. In numbers that he cared not to keep track of, he hated it, the human syndar ulven part anyway. Killing Mordok was just part of life, and the dead needed to stay dead. But in his older age his thoughts now thought of the little farm, cows, chickens, maybe a few of them horses that the humans had brought over. He could grow tobacco and other crops. Hunt in the woods and fish off the stream. Only kill a few Mordok a week. The great wolf would not forget his deeds. He could see it now a small cabin a little barn, dead Mordok burning, using the ash in the fields, ash was great fertilizer. Maybe, one day, he would have his little home for him and his mate. But now he had other things to take care of, he saw the outpost miles away from the top of the hill. He could see his home.

Harlok Longfang

Harlok stood on the edge of the path and stared out across the field in front of him. The Longfang warriors had regrouped after the Grimward summit incident and had linked up with a number of travelers heading to the Onsallas Outpost. They had been traveling a lot lately. The Runeseer would want to know about what is going on.

Word had reached them that directly after the Longfangs left the Wayward Inn that a hunting party of Pack Graytide warriors attacked it. They burned it to the ground and killed a number of people. Harlok unconsciously growled under his breath, remembering the two Pack Goldmane females. They were both part of Clan Grimward and were probably behind the attack, scouting it out and waiting to send word as soon as the Longfangs left. A snarl curled Harlok’s lip a bit as he remembered his duel with the taller female. She had a fire in her and some skill with a blade and shield, but he hoped some of the cuts he gave her scarred over and reminded her of her place. He should have killed her and her mate then and been done with them. If he ever met them again, he may just have to finish what he started during the duel. Dria had glowered at him after the honor duel for attempting to finish the Goldmane right then and there, to turn the duel lethal. Harlok remembered it well but knew he did not need to explain himself to Dria. She was but a pup yet and he found her reaction quite cute. This wasn’t a duel over a mate or some farm land or even a bad insult. This was a duel between warriors on two different sides of a war; the first civil war in Ulven history. There is no quarter for Clan Grimward and their allies after they did such horrible things at the summit. He still wasn’t sure what Azra saw in her or why she tolerated Dria, but it was not his business to question her. As long as she didn’t get in his way and fixed their armor, he didn’t care.

Harlok turned and watched the small group of travelers passing by him. They weren’t ordered to do so, but the Longfangs had taken up the role of caravan guard and escort for this group of people. A mix of humans, Syndar, and Ulven walked with their belongings and carts along the path. It is a dangerous time, the Mordok are just as vicious as ever and now Grimward warriors prowl the roads and attack the settlers and Ulven that have not pledged allegiance to them. The world has been turned upside down and it will only get bloodier. One of the travelers stumbled and fell, dropping some personal belongings and getting dirt on their clean clothing. Harlok grunted in mock amusement as he pondered how weak and pathetic most of the colonists were. Half of them are barely worth a damn in a fight and the other half are just useless. The culture of the humans and Syndar was amusing to Harlok. How such “great” civilizations could spring up from such a frail stock of people was beyond his comprehension. It amused Harlok that half of them had no idea how to fight the Mordok. Some of them just clambered around in their heavy metal armor and expected the Mordok to fight them. Some others expected the Mordok to line up on some pretty grass field and fight on equal terms. The Mordok do not fight such a way, they run away from you if you are too strong, attack you if you are weak, and every fight is bloody and lethal. The Ulven know, especially Pack Longfang… the very armor that protects you from their wicked blades could be the reason why you can’t catch them. Harlok growled in frustration at this train of thought and decided to abandon it; some of them will never learn.

He hoped that Raskolf of the Watchwolves was right, that aiding the colonists was the right answer. Branthur and Kragen from Clan Nightriver are fully committed to this cause even if it means violence against other clans. It didn’t matter to Harlok; he simply followed the orders of his Runeseer and she had decreed that the Longfangs support the Watchwolves. Until she deems it otherwise, he would fulfill his duty to her and his pack. If she changed her mind… well then he may be on the other side of this war. Only time will tell.

Harlok reached up to stare at his bandaged left hand. He flexed his hand back and forth, feeling the new tissue strain against the scabs and the pain that came with it. His bandage was still bloody, the result of continuing to fight and hold weapons. It was not given the proper time to heal and was taking much longer than expected, but he would live with it. Anger flashed behind Harlok’s eyes as he remembered the Graytide summit. The escalation and the bloody fight that broke out boiled his rage. Khulgar… he was so close to smashing his head into a pulp on the great hall floor. Wigwald stood up to Khulgar to save Magrat and Yawn and he paid for it with his life. Harlok knew that Khulgar would recover from the wounds and the beating that Harlok gave him. Maybe they would all get lucky and he will catch an infection and die a straw death in his sleep. Graytides and Longfangs have crossed paths in the past and he knew there would be very bad blood between the packs before this war was through. The Graytides claim to be strong warriors but Harlok relishes in the thought of crossing blades with them again.

Harlok’s thoughts changed to that of bigger and darker things. Mardrun is engulfed in civil war. The dead now walk the sacred lands of Gaia. He still could not wrap his head around it. Maybe Clan Grimward was right… maybe things are the way they are because of the colonists. In only 10 short years after the colonists arrived, the Ulven are at war with each other and the dead roam the land. It is hard to denounce the coincidence.

The walking corpses terrified Harlok. Harlok Longfang… proud son of the heroic Hanseth Longfang, candidate for the legendary Tundra Wolves, slayer of hundreds of Mordok, Ulven vanguard and veteran of the first conflict with the colonists, experienced warrior of the strong and elite Pack Longfang and survivor of the grueling Fang Trials… was scared. The stories that the colonists spun had always been alien to him, like exaggerated tales of monsters. But facing them first hand… Harlok was ashamed of himself and his reaction to them. Luckily, it was dark so that the others could not see his terrified face. Luckily, Raskolf had been there behind him, so that when his faltering legs wanted to take steps backwards and away from the Lich, he was instead forced to press onward. He could not understand how the others were so casual about this. Were these not the monsters that destroyed the entire continent of Faedrun? The humans… they carried on about finding fungus and rocks and earning a couple stupid coins. How are they not terrified? Magrat seemed to know, she was the one who knew how to prepare for the fight with the Lich. Harlok was not ashamed to say that he needed her knowledge and resolve that evening. She is one of them now, a Longfang, and his fellow warriors would need to rely on her to combat this new enemy. Even if we are scared, Pack Longfang will not shy away from this or any other fight.

Harlok’s mind pondered about the new addition to his pack. Some of her customs, and her actions, concerned or confused him a bit but this was a very different world now. At first, he thought she was weak, until she accompanied him on a patrol deep into the swamp at the outpost months back and she impressed him. She was the first outsider to be accepted into the village. He couldn’t imagine some of the others, like the timid green shirted female or the loud human male in metal armor, ever earning a place inside the elite Pack Longfang. The green Syndar still had a lot to learn. She could fight but was still no match for most of the warriors. Harlok didn’t blame her; he knew her people raised her with different skills and beliefs the same way that other packs and clans of Ulven will have different backgrounds. She may not be prepared for stand-up heavy skirmish fighting, but she was a hunter and a shaman. She brought new skills to the Longfangs that could support them. But she took to the Longfangs quickly, and respected them, and became one of them. Harlok remembered her strike that left a ragged scar on his neck during her induction trial and he grinned a feral grin. She fought like a cornered animal and it pleased him that she could tap into that. She earned her place and he would break the jaw of any Ulven that didn’t respect that. He promised that he would step on the shores of Faedrun to return her home to her people and he relished the thought of it.

Harlok hefted his spear onto his shoulder and regarded the traveler’s like he would a convoy of bugs. Sometimes he couldn’t even stomach the weaker packs of his own kind, watching the rabble of outsiders was both cynically amusing and painfully irritating. If only he could talk, he would tell them exactly what he thought of most of them. He also decided that the next time someone laughed at him when he tried to gesture, he was going to break their jaw.

It was a different world indeed, thought Harlok as he stepped back onto the path and in line with the caravan of travelers.