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Yawn Longfang
Harlok Longfang

Yawn sat at the back table of the tavern. Drinking his drink, smoking his pipe. The mead was flowing just fine that night. The younglings had been given leave to take the name they choose, and more importantly, Yawn was now free of the good awful long named imposed on him as a protection to confuse and confound those thing that creep int he night and happily drag off the young. Yawnrick Eix Nifflem Longfang… Where did his mother even find that many letters to string together. The bar was full of younglings like Yawn. All eager to start the trails. But unlike yawn most all of them had the eyes or had the fangs come in. Yawn had neither as of yet.
A trio at the bar start in on it. Drunk… Very very drunk the three of them. One start in “Hey why do you think Yawnricks not come into the eyes or even the fangs yet?” The second ” Poor luck.” The third “or poor blood in his father line perhaps she didn’t choose so well. YAWN what you do you think.”
“I think I will say when I finish my pipe an my mead.” Yawn manged flatly with only a tinge of irritation. “hmph the way he smokes we’d be waiting all night.” Thing went on that way, the trio gossiping loudly, forgetting about Yawn entirely. Then the one in the middle piped up once more. “Do you think mayhap it isn’t to do with Yawn at all, maybe it to do with who or what his mother choose, maybe she laid with a human or a syndar” The taunt went on but Yawn had stop listening right then. Yawns father had bested four warriors hand to hand to convince his mother he was worthy of being chosen. Four warriors of her choosing. Victories that has not come easily. Kragen and Harlok two among the four, both had broken ribs, Kragen had disjointed his shoulder, and he’d chipped a fang in one the bought, and could not speak as Harlok broke his jaw in the last bought. His father manged it in one night and It took three months to recover from the bought all told. Three months. Yawn was Longfang through and through.
Yawn quietly emptied and filled his pipes bowel. Downed his mug of mead, and very quietly strode over to the trio, tapping the center youth on the shoulder. And as he turned Yawn loosed a sucker punch so vicious it drew blood and cracked the center youths fang. His friend to the left raised his heavy tankard to bring it down across Yawns head, but he was seated, he could not move as fast. Yawn saw the arm and what it held, he slid his arm up the seated youths shoulder and cupped his hand at the back of his neck trapping arm, and with all his weight brought head down against the bar in a savage arch. Yawn brought his head down another two times, with less force but the first seemed to of had the desired effect of putting the second out of the fight. Though that was when things stopped going so well for Yawn. There was a crash and his vision swam , some had struck him int he back hard. Very hard. Yawn spun a bit more slowly, but the strike had only served to fuel Yawns anger. The third being bright, or perhaps just having much more time to react then his friends had shattered a stool over Yawns back. Yawn leapt at him and the fight went to the ground, the third beat at yawn with the former stool leg. In the end, yawn slipped to his back and levered the club against his foes neck choking him senseless.
His eyes still blurry, he checked that he hadn’t over held the choke… It took three minutes time he’d been told all his life but Gaia help him if he’d killed another youngling. No kill breathing just fine. Good.
Yawn stumbled back to his table, filled his pipe, lit it from the tables candle and drew deeply. He scooped up his mug and limped to the bar. “He going to live?” the keep asked. “They’ll remember tonight but all be fine in a few days. Well swore but fine. Make it a full mug, the priestess will not be best pleased with my defense of my mothers good name… like to be my last for some time…” Yawn sighed, drew on his pipe, and waited for the guards that would by now be a very short time from he tavern door… He’d accept he punishment. Whatever it was, this had been wrong. If he’d of called for a duel they may of cowered and backed down, and that would be the end of it, or beaten one senseless and be done with it. Now he’d beaten all three senseless, and was none the better for it. “This is going to be a long week..” Yawn muttered at the guards crossed the threshold and he downed his mead. Of course right then Yawn couldn’t know how right he would be.

——————————————

Two of the Onsallas village guards walked into the tavern connected to the longhouse. They had heard the commotion and stepped inside to see what was going on. They surveyed the scene and instantly knew that words and then fists were exchanged. Yawn was quietly drinking his mead, and it was obvious what had happened.

The guards moved towards Yawn deliberately but not threateningly, knowing he would comply and serve his punishment.

“Alright Yawn, I know Stanrick can get into some trouble, but this is new…” said the Longfang guard as he grabbed Yawn’s arm and slowly began to pull him away from the bar.

The guards hadn’t noticed a figure had walked up behind the two of them until an armor clad gauntlet reached out and grasped the shoulder of one the guards. The act was instantly regarded as hostile, as interfering with the village guards is a serious offense.

“Don’t interfere with our duties! You want to join him in the stocka….” said the guard whose voice was quickly cut short. He had turned as he spoke, until he locked gaze with Harlok Longfang, the Ulven who had interrupted them. Harlok’s piercing lupine eyes summed up the guard and his quiet and stone still pose had been enough to silence the guard. The younger guard was confused and not sure what to do next.

Harlok’s gaze then went to the three bloodied whelps on the floor, then up to Yawn, who sat quietly and bloodied a bit himself. It was obvious that Yawn had defeated the three younglings and then waited for his punishment.

Harlok walked over close to Yawn and grabbed his wrist, raising it up and pointing towards his bicep. Yawn looked confused, until Harlok then pointed at the three younglings on the tavern floor. Yawn nodded… and Harlok grinned. With a bit of surprise, Harlok reached out and clasped Yawn’s forearm in a sign of respect and nodded in approval.

Harlok then turned and locked eyes with the two guards, who still stood their confused. Harlok pointed at the two guards, then to the three younglings, and then motion outside. He punctuated this fact with a deep growl and a bearing of fangs.

The guards complied and scooped up the worst of the the younglings and dragged them outside. Harlok then strode out of the bar and left Yawn there in silence.

Ryla Larksfield

The morning sun played across the sea. From her seat next to the window, Ryla stared uneasily at the view she’d watched thousands of times before. The Winter Apple was very nearly deserted, and it was no surprise. Many had fled Dellastern already, hoping to escape the undead scourge that now threatened it’s gates. The docks were very near chaos, by tonight they’d devolve into all out warfare as those still in the city sought escape. The Temple Rose waited, guards wary and impatient. Still, she knew it would not leave until she was aboard. Her gaze returned to the horizon. Before the sun set again she would be sailing past that horizon. She’d never been farther away from this cesspit she called home. What would life be like as a refugee in a new, alien continent. It was a blessing that she’d spent her life hiding the terror she felt, or she’d have shaken the ale right out of her glass.

Heavy boots trod in and up to her table, she recognized his gait before she saw him. He downed half of his mug of beer before he acknowledged her. Had it been anyone else, Ryla would have found the gesture insulting. It was hard to feel offended, though, when a person drags himself from the front lines of a bloody battle to meet you for drinks. He looked like he’d aged a decade, his normally impeccable calm shattered. He was dirty and unkempt, but it was the slump of his shoulders, a vaguely haunted look to him that made Ryla shift uncomfortably in her seat. When he finally did speak, his voice still held the authoritative grumble she had always found comforting, but there was an icy edge to it. She reminded herself that he was her friend, she had nothing to fear from him—no matter how many men he’d killed. “You shouldn’t be here.”
She forced herself to meet his eyes. “And you should be fleeing the city with me. But it appears we’re both too stubborn for our own good.
“Sure, sure. What’s with the muscle?”
She shrugged, dismissing the thugs behind her without a glance. “Dangerous times. A girl can’t be too careful. I believe it was your turn.”
He laughed. “One of these days you’re going to have to outgrow these games,” but he turned his attention to the chess board she’d set between them. He moved his rook quickly, then leaned back tiredly and examined his opponent. “Martin’s dead.”
Ryla started. “I thought he’d outlive us all. I’m sorry.”
“No one lives forever. He saved my life, the big idiot.” Then he added with an uncharacteristically roguish grin, “I suspect I’ll be seeing him soon enough.”
“You’re an idiot too.” She dropped her gaze, pretending to be examining her predicament on the board. “Is there anything I can do? Anyone I can find?”
He shook his head. “I told you last time, there isn’t anyone. All my friends are out there dying right along with me.” He didn’t seem bothered by the thought. “Or leaving.”While she was ignoring that, he took another long drink and pulled at his leather armor like it was too tight. He lived in armor and she’d never once seen him look uncomfortable. “Is it bizarrely hot in here, or is it just me?”
She smiled sweetly. “It is a bit.” She picked up his king and turned it slowly in her hand. “You really think dying out there is going to make a damn bit of difference?”
“My men . . . “ he began, his throat had become scratchy, his voice hoarse.
“ . . . Aren’t out there because of you. They have their own reasons, or they wouldn’t stay. The undead and the penitent are going to roll through this city like a storm, sweeping away any poor fool in their way.”
Speeches made him suspicious, but he was beyond the point where he’d be able to do anything about it and Ryla knew it. Perhaps she’d hoped to explain herself, but he simply stared daggers at her. People had stared daggers at her before, but there was something coldly murderous in his manner that made her stop philosophizing.
She smiled again, but it was tight and self conscious. She placed his piece back on the board. “Checkmate.”
His face twisted in anger and understanding as her eyes flicked to his glass. Then, they rolled up and he slumped onto the table, then fell to the floor. She knelt next to him, making sure he was breathing evenly. Then picked up his king again and pocketed it before motioning for the two goons to lift him.

Duncan became slowly aware that the floor was moving. Alone, the sensation would have been odd. With the demonic gala rolling around in his stomach it was a new level of torment. Half awake, he rolled over and was sick. “Flea-bitten Hells!” A young woman exclaimed.
Opening his eyes, he saw Ryla, just out of range of the mess. She looked at him and grinned despite his sickness. She offered him a mug of something brackish that also smelled like vomit. When he turned his nose up at she admonished him with a bizarrely maternal look. “It’ll help you feel human again.”
He propped himself up and drank it as quickly as he could. “It isn’t working.”
She handed him a water skin to wash it down. “You have to give it a minute.”
She went about cleaning the floor next to him while his mind caught up to his body. It was slow going, but eventually he did start to feel less terrible. He grabbed her arm, realization finally dawning on him. “We’re on a ship.”
“Uh-huh.”
His grip tighten as he followed the line of logic. “You drugged me. . .”
“Guilty.”
“ . . . and kidnapped me.”
“Well, strong men have been kidnapping young women for centuries. A little turn about is fair play.”
When he failed to let go of her am she pried his hand off one finger at a time and sat down next to him, trying to look innocent. “I’m fairly sure I was saving your life.”
“Yes, and how exactly did you go about that?”
She shrugged. “I had my cohorts carry you to the ship. I told the captain you were my father. That you were in your cups again.”
“Why?” he growled.
“I need you.”
“What?”
“Just a wealth of conversation aren’t we?” When he responded with a glare she continued. “The new world’s dangerous. I need someone with martial skills to make sure I stay in one piece.”
“So, you just plucked on off the street.” His voice pitched oddly. She’d heard him angry, but there was a note of disbelief that was new.
“Again—’saved one’s life’ would be more accurate.” He didn’t wait for her explanation, he’d already stood up and began pacing.
“Who the hell do you think you are? You can’t just haul a man off to a different continent and expect him to be your faithful servant.”
“Who said anything about a servant? I just said I needed help.”
“And that’s what it’s all about isn’t it: what you need.”
Ryla’s jaw clenched, when she spoke it was icey. “Exactly. I guess you’ve finally figured me out.”
He grabbed her bag and tossed it to her. “Go. I never want to see you again.”
“That’s going to be a bit difficult.” She sidled past him, calmer than she felt. “We’re on a ship. Idiot.”

There was a soft glow on the horizon, or maybe he was just imagining it. The ship had a subdued happiness to it. It was the quiet celebration of survivors who had a very long way yet to go. But Duncan couldn’t tear his eyes away from the glow. He couldn’t make himself stop seeing the dead, walking or otherwise. In his mind he walked Dellastern’s streets, played witness to the blood and the carnage that must have been happening that very second. Silently killing and rekilling all of the poor souls he’d left behind. Even he admitted it to himself it was a bit morbid, but after a lifetime as a mercenary his imagination had plenty to work with.
Then there was a man standing next to him, handing him a drink, which he begrudgingly accepted. “You must be Ryla’s dad,” said the newcomer.
Duncan snorted in disgust. “Must I?”
The stranger had the nerve to laugh. “Nah, I know she’s an orphan. Hell, everybody who knows her knows she’s an orphan. Not shy that one.”
“Apparently the captain didn’t know.”
“Or he didn’t care. She has a way of ingratiating herself, after all.”
Duncan growled deep in his throat, but the other man didn’t seem to find his bad temper intimidating. In fact, he seemed to find it rather amusing. “She’s got rotten luck though. . .Saving the only man in Aldoria who apparently hates her for it.”
The two stood in silence for several moments. Duncan stood stock still in anger, the other man proving to be surprising patient for a nuisance. Finally, Duncan caved. “I don’t hate her because she saved my life. I just . . .” The glow was still there, the only funeral pyre for an entire city. “Thousands of innocent women and children are dying, have died, and she manages to drag one stupid old man out of it. And not because I’m her friend, because I can be of use to her.”
“Did she say that?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes. She said she needed someone to help her in Mardrun.”
The sailor shook his head like there was a particularly funny joke in that. “Well, pride makes us all do stupid things sometimes. I guess I can see your point. All her hard won connections and she rescues one person. And she chooses you. Then has the nerve to ask you for help. I’d be pissed too.”
Duncan downed the rest of his drink, his shoulders slumped in defeat. “You’re right. People do what they have to do to survive. Far be it for me to expect anything more from her.”
He went to leave, but the sailor grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him round to face the ship. He pointed to a family huddled round their dinner. “He’s a butcher. Months ago his son got sick, took all the money they had to treat him. They had nothing when they received word that the undead were headed for the city.” He pointed to another woman, very obviously pregnant, being sick over the side. “She’s a whore. Or was. She’s got a few gold in her pocket, a place on this ship, a home and job all lined up in the new world. A new life for her and her child, assuming it makes the crossing.
“There’s a young man downstairs who escaped a rather unpleasant life under the thumb of a particularly pernicious crime lord by boarding this ship. And a few dozen more stories just like that.”
“Great. There is good in the world. Hurray.” Duncan countered wearily.
The sailor rolled his eyes and leaned on the rail casually. “Why’s she only got one bag?”
“What?”
“Why’s Ryla only got one bag with her? Light as air, so you know it isn’t stuffed with gold. She wasn’t poor, made a pretty good living for herself back in the city. She knew she was leaving. She even had time to plan your kidnapping and crossing. You’ve no doubt noticed she brought things aboard for you. So, where’s her wealth? Figured the undead could use it more, I suppose?”
Duncan took a moment. He looked, for the first time, at the faces of the people on the ship. Before him lay a vessel full of living, breathing people who had escaped Aldoria. “I don’t suppose you let these people cross out of the goodness of your heart, did you?”
The Captain grinned back. “Me? Gods no, I’m a businessman.”

Ryla’d been making the rounds, seeing to old friends and making new ones. No one had disturbed her bag. Duncan wondered if it was because they respected it’s owner, or because everyone knew there was nothing of value to take. He’d been expecting her to look a bit happier when she saw him, but her frown turned bitter.
“Where’d you get that?” She motioned to the chess board he’d set up on the floor. He picked up one of the pieces that had fallen over, chessboards and ships apparently didn’t mix. He gave her his best impression of a sheepish smile. “The captain lent it to me. Nice guy.”
She eyed him in obvious distrust, but took a seat across the board from him on the floor. “Yes, indeed. And disturbingly prone to sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. Thinks he’s clever.”
“Says a benefactor filled his ship nearly to bursting with downtrodden unfortunates heading to Mardrun. That she went broke doing it, but that she saved all of their lives.” When Ryla remained still and silent, he continued. “He says she has nothing. That she won’t last the winter without help.”
Looking bored, Ryla asked, “So?”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me act like such an ass?”
“One, I don’t have the time or energy to control your ass-headed tendencies. Two, and more importantly, I don’t have to justify myself to you.”
“But you could have mentioned it.”
“Yes, I could have. Then what? You’d forgive me and spend the rest of your life lauding my goodness? I got that money from a decade of being a selfish little monster, I still am, and I always will be. If that’s going to be a problem for you, then we should go our separate ways.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll never think well of you again.”
She sighed in frustration. “Think well of me, think ill of me, fine. I’ve probably earned both. But I thought we were friends, and not just when it suited you.”
“Thank the gods I never had a daughter. Do women ever just accept an apology?” She arched an eyebrow, unable to keep from smiling.
“Oh. Damnation . . . I’m sorry.”
“Apology accept. Also, checkmate. And I mean the game, this time.”

Our most powerful Cleric had been killed; so many warriors wounded beyond our remaining clerics ability to help. We can’t hold out for too much longer. It had been 90 days since the first attack, then 16 since the second, and the third had yet to happen, we were still waiting; tensely. Rebuilding, repairing; we had started to relax, with hope that no more attacks would come. Our main focus was on home, to prepare for the coming winter. I had been running back and forth from the Blacksmith who was making nails, to those who were doing repairs as fast as they could. Any able bodies were helping; we all had to pitch in. Once we were done and finished with our chores, the children knew we could play games with the rest of our day. Today we planned to play a game of tag; we hadn’t played it since the last attack.

“Echo, Senal needs nails,” as Lilia, the healer’s daughter passed me up. I nodded and ran to the West side of the village. Senal was known as our village Seer; he had been accurate with everything so far, which was frightening at times. He had recently predicted a move of some kind, but this was our home; and nobody would accept that we were going to move. We fight for our home, we protect it, all Ulven knew that. Wandering over to the skeleton of Senals home, I raised a small fist full of nails. “Thank you child,” with a pat on the head and a few brisk words, we parted ways. I ran to find Tiresia, my mother, at the healing house. When I pushed past the makeshift fur walls, I slipped past Anani, and Alali, the last two Clerics of our village. I found them to look tired and worn. This was probably their third time meditating this morning, they were drained, but we all had to do what we must to keep our people healing and fighting. “Make sure not to bug them little Echo,” looking at mother I nodded, she put a finger to my lips before motioning her to come close. “Senal says rain soon and a runner arrived with a hawk- They told Senal that help would be scarce, for there was also a large attack of Mordok up North and the warriors were sent that way first.” Beaming to myself I felt proud, I liked delivering messages and learning about what was going on in our lands. It made what was happening at home seem tiny. “Go out and tell everyone Senal said rain, I’ll finish up patching some of the wounds and come out to help with the roofs. If Senal is right, with he usually is then they’ll be needed most tonight.” She kept so composed, though I knew she was worried. I guess it had always been that way. As the Leader of our village in Nightriver, she had to make sure everything was going smoothly for everyone. These past months, with all the attacks and deaths, it had left her so tired. I ran along, passing on the message of rain. I made the last of my deliveries with the now empty nail bucket swinging at my side, letting out a resounding thump. I had to stop and hold the bucket aloft, stopping the thumping on my side to recognize the sound of a horn: two short blasts. The others around me let out a holler of joy. Laughter spread slowly, putting down their tools. Helping friends down from beams, we all made our way to the Central area of the village. The Hunting party had returned.

As I jumped, getting a little taller each time to see what was going on; strong hands wrapped around under my arms and lifted me atop lean shoulders. Calliope, the best archer of our village beamed up at me and walked to the center to rejoin her hunt-mates. “We got a lot this time, two elk, a boar, we even found a lot of healing regents; so our healer should be well supplied again.” As I listened to her I looked around, everyone did seem excited, almost relaxed. The cooking fire was slowly being kindled into life; the midday meal would soon be on its way. “How long are you staying this time?” messing with her hair. I’ve became oblivious to what was lurking outside the village as the small festivities started in celebration for the good fortune of our hunters. We relaxed further. “I’m not sure, but I plan to stay long enough to rebuild my hut. I miss having a small space of my own plus; the ground is getting a little too cold now.” Lifting me from her shoulders, she pulled me over to the carcass of the bigger Elk. “There,” pointing at the puncture wound of an arrow, I knew instantly what she wanted me to say. “You got into the windpipe, a quicker death… but kinda painful too,” I frowned, a little sad for the poor creature I patted its soft nose, “Rest well friend.” I turned away as the gutting and skinning commenced. We headed for the fire, the fall chill had slowly started setting in with the sun beginning its descent. The cold seemed to seep into your bones.

It seemed our whole village was now in the center. Looking at some of the buildings I could see a few of the people still helping on the roofs, it was peaceful. Sitting by the fireside as the meat and stew started cooking, the people around me were made merry as things had started looking up. I even saw some of the injured warriors clapping their hands as others danced in groups, spinning and laughing.

Everyone instantly froze as we heard the blast of a horn, long and loud bellowed over the area. The fighters jumped up and began racing to pull their weapons from their sheaths to defend the town from the coming threat. Calliope raced away from me, her bow drawn up instantly as she nocked an arrow. A scream let out from the eastern side of the village and smoke slowly began to rise from the edges of town. People started running, abandoning what they had been doing not only seconds ago to grab what they could for fighting. The other children had started running. I got swept away in it as we ran for cover, seeking it in the piles of fire wood. Slipping into the gaps between the piles. Outside of our cover it seemed a war was being waged, as our tiny hands grasped onto each other for security and comfort. A warrior fell in front of us with an axe in his torso. We held hands over our mouths to stop from screaming. Above the now deceased warrior, the black face of a Mordok stared at us. A growling sneer spreading over its face as it bellowed a cry of victory. It charged, the children tried climbing up and over the piles of tumbling fire wood, trying to scurrying away. I couldn’t move. The axe came down fast; It hardly missed me as I jerked farther back into the pile. I hit the back of the pile, there was no more room to push back into. His axe raised again, his muscles tensed as he started to swing forward and an arrow whizzed by. A gurgle escaped its mouth, as it dropped his weapon, clattering down at my feet. The arrow stuck out from its neck, bleeding red over its body. Hands wrapped around my arm, tugging hard. I screeched, long and loud against the sounds of clashing metal and grinding of footsteps on dirt. “Hush Echo, it’s only me,” as I buried my face into Calliopes shoulder I started to cry. I wept in terror, I wept for those around us and the fate of our village. Everyone around us was fighting, bruised and wounded but still surging forward for our home, our only hope. But we knew it would hopeless, with so many injured. We had let ourselves relax and for that were caught so off guard. We didn’t have the strength to push back anymore.
Sword in hand, my mother approached us; her face splattered with blood and the bottom of her pants was torn to the knee. She turned to a warrior who was running by and stopped him. “How many are there?”
“I’m not sure; they swarmed in too large of a group.”
“Do we have the strength to fight them?” as her arms came up in a defensive position she watched all around us, worry flashed openly over her face.
“No Ma’am, too many are wounded from the last attack, and we don’t have the advantage. They attacked us completely off guard. The entire east side of the village is in flame and the main hall has been toppled and overrun. We won’t be able to hold for much longer.” With a fist over his heart and a short nod, the warrior turned to help his brethren in the battle. A silence fell as he left, Tiresia contemplated; this would be the largest decision of our village.

“NOOO!!” the word and all its anguish cut through the silence. Turning, I watched Anani cradling her sister; a mirror image of herself. A rage seemed to fill her as her arms shook around Alali. She screamed again and stood. Looking serene now, she focused on drawing on her powers she primed 2 spells for instant death, and calmly walked into the ensuing battle. Nobody stopped her. Peaceful, calm, dainty Anani, walked right to her death. The battle consumed her, we saw the blast of the magic she had with her and we could see her no more.

“Give me that conch,” ripping the horn from the hand of a nearby fighter she brought it to her lips, Long, Short, Long. People started backing away form the fight, towards us… we were fleeing. Those who still had the strength, protected our backs as we retreated. I was thrust upon my mothers back as she ran. Helping to pull any who had slowed; telling them to speed up. Looking back, I saw Anani once again, lying by her sister’s side as her chest was seeped with red. The east side was covered in smoke, the columns rising high into the sky. I was sure the Watch Wolves in the north could see. We ran away, as fast as we could. Our fellow Ulven around us surging through the woods on trails we knew well. This was our home and the land had been our friend. Behind us, I heard the guttural cry of victory. The Mordok knew they had won and that our village would be no more. It crossed my mind that Senal had been right. Maybe if we had listened, and been willing to change; this might not have happened to us. A droplet fell onto my cheek; with small grimy hands I wiped it away, to find that it was covered all over in red.

~Two Days Later~

“We simply need shelter, temporary of course. I can explain further about the movements of the Mordok once my people are safe.” My mother walked away with the leader of this village. I clung in earnest to the children around me. We were drained, exhausted of all strength. We had been walking for two days and one full night. Half of our people were nodding off where they stood- others were too paranoid to sleep, thinking only of the danger and horror if they did. In front of us Calliope stood, with two other women. They stood like stone, guarding us from the possible danger of the world. To my left, Senal was being tended to, the gash down his arm was angry and red. He spoke to some of the local villagers who had come with questions, telling them what had happened. It seemed though from their reactions, that none of them had heard of the attack on our village in the two days it had taken us to arrive here. Children peeked out from behind elders, staring at us with large eyes. I could not blame them, we must have been a sight; bloodstained, bruised, some with open wounds still needed tending to.

With slow determined steps, Tiresia returned; a small smile over her face. The leader of the Village stood by her side, an arm around her shoulder comforting. “We have been granted stay, for as long as we need to heal and pick up our feet. They have put aside the smaller tavern for us and some of the homes of the people around here have been opened for us as well. Rest easy my friends, for when we can, we are moving towards the center of Nightriver territory and then we will rebuild our village.” Drifting out of this world, I fell asleep curled with the other children nodding off one by one. We did not need to worry longer, as our new found shelter will now keep us all safe.

Bloody Anne Cash

---

“Commander, vessel off the starboard bow! She looks like the Maiden!”
For weeks, Commander Ridgebon, of the I.A.S. Interceptor, had been hunting the Maiden of the Sea, a pirate ship infamous for its ruthlessness in dealing with any and all it encountered. Lieutenant Anne Cash had been straining her eyes on the horizon for days, praying that she was not simply imagining the ship in the distance. Extending her spyglass, she was greeted by the sight of the grisly masthead on the distant vessel: A young woman, nude from the waist up; her face twisted in pain; a sword held in her hand, its blade extending into her abdomen. This was the Maiden of the Sea, to be sure.

“You heard her, boys! Sails to full! Bring us in close! She’s not getting away from me this time!” Commander Ridgebon stared intently towards the horizon, focusing on his quarry. Four times had the Interceptor come up on the Maiden, and each time did the pirate vessel manage to escape. Wanted for raiding dozens of merchant vessels, and not known for leaving survivors, Captain Anthony Newall was a clever foe, and knew when to run. This time, though, there would be no escape. The Interceptor was fast enough and close enough that the Maiden would not have time to flee.

“Get ready to board, boys! Anne! When she’s in range, light up some arrows and aim for her sails!” The Commander was fueled by his fury at being bested time and time again by a mere pirate. His crew would not be outdone this time.

As the Interceptor drew near to her target, the crew noticed something was amiss. There was no movement on deck, no flags of surrender flew. A single young woman stood, bound to the main mast, her hands pinned to her sides and a rag in her mouth keeping her muffled cries quiet. Something was off, but sailors are often quick to leap to the rescue of a fair young lady. Before any of the officers could shout a warning, five men were setting the gangplanks to board the sitting vessel, racing across to be the woman’s savior.

Anne’s bow, her oldest possession, slid into her hand, an arrow quickly finding its rest on the string. Her eyes scanned the ship, looking for any movement which could mean trouble. As the sailors reached the deck of the Maiden, a sudden shout sounded from the hull. Four men emerged from trapdoors in the deck brandishing swords, another two wielded bows. Lieutenant Cash drew and fired, her arrow biting deep into the chest of one of the archers, dropping him instantly. The second archer, however, had time to ensure his arrow also struck true, protruding from the neck of one of the sailors. More sailors boarded, and more pirates emerged from their hiding place, quickly turning the battle bloody.

Amidst the combat, one of the sailors, guarded by his allies, drew his knife and began sawing at the bonds imprisoning the young woman on the mast. As her arms fell free, a sinister smile drew her lips upwards, almost laughing as her hands began to move in a strange manner, conjuring the latent energy around her. Before he had time to react, the sailor who had freed the woman was hurtling through the air, clear over the guardrails and into the waiting ocean. Soon enough, another sailor was flung into the rear mast in a similar fashion, knocking him out cold. Unaccustomed to battling against forces they could not see, the sailors did their best to avoid this new threat, giving the mage a wide berth and favoring combat against the steel swords of the pirates, instead.
Commander Ridgebon had been surveying the melee from the deck of the Interceptor, waiting for his chance to strike, shouting orders to his troops. Captain Newall was still nowhere to be seen, though, so the Commander stayed his hand.

Anne was not so patient. With two arrows left, she drew and fired at the mage. If her allies would not engage her, then Anne would have to do it herself; as they say, never send a man to do a woman’s job. As the arrow screamed towards it’s target, eager to pierce a limb, it collided with the thin air around the mage with a faint wave of blue energy and fell to the ground, wasted.
Not used to fighting against magic, Anne stood in shock for a moment before nocking another arrow and releasing it as the mage began channeling another spell. As she muttered the final incantation, the arrow struck her leg, lodging itself deep in the mage’s thigh just a moment before another warding spell was completed. The annoyance on the mage’s face was matched only by the pain in her eyes, clearly a stranger to injury.

---

The sailors, despite their training, were hard-pressed to hold their position on the ship. They had rallied since the ambush and had maneuvered into a defensive formation to shield those wounded in the original attack. They were outnumbered, and many were distracted by the mage, fearful of being thrown overboard or worse.
During the chaos, a figure had emerged from the hull of the ship, a wiry man with a sharpened black hook where his right hand should have been and a grand red coat, one ill-suited to a life at sea. “Come on, ye salty dogs! I’ll not have me ship fall to a bunch of do-gooders!” Captain Newall shouted over his crew.

---

With no more arrows, Anne slid down the rigging to the deck of the Interceptor, drew her sword, and ran across the gangplank to confront the mage. Two orbs of deep blue energy appeared in the mages hands, which flew at the lieutenant. Dropping to her knees, the first bolt flew past Anne’s ear, although the second struck her leg as she went to stand again, knocking her leg out from under her, tearing a small hole in her armored skirt.
Unfazed, Anne found her footing again and charged the mage, once again being met by the strange shield. Her second strike was more successful, however, sinking itself into the mage’s left arm. Before her third blow could connect, Anne was flung through the air, landing gracelessly on her back, once again surprised by the power within this young girl. Soon enough, Anne was back on her feet and approaching the mage once more, preparing herself for another blast.

---

Seeing his foe on deck, Commander Ridgebon drew his sword and issued a challenge. “Captain Anthony Newall!” He shouted, his booming voice clearly audible even over the battle raging in front of him. “I, Commander Jackston Ridgebon, on behalf of the King and People of Aldoria, order you and your crew to stand down. Surrender, and justice will be brought upon you as dictated by Aldorian law. Resist, and the fury of the I.A.S. Interceptor will rain down until you beg for death! What say you?”
“I think we’ll take our chances!” Retorted Captain Newall. “We’re at an impasse, but my men are patient! We’ve got two men for each of yours. It’s only a matter of time!”
“Then let’s settle this the old way, Captain: a duel to the death. Captain to Commander. No tricks, no interference. Or have you been spending too much time with the fairies to remember what honor is?”
“If any of ye lay a finger on him before I’m through, you’ll suffer a fate worse than death! Commander, I accept! Now, draw!”

---

Focusing the arcane power within her, the mage produced a scintillating ball of energy and hurled it at the lieutenant, striking her in the stomach. Anne fell to her knees, feeling as though someone had punched the air out of her lungs. She stood to attack the mage again, but found herself blinded. Stumbling around, struggling to gain her bearings, Anne knew she was at the mercy of the mage. She heard the shuffling of feet approaching her head on, the dragging of the leg she had shot. It was no use, Anne’s mind was alert, but her body was sluggish at best. She tried to brace herself for what was to come, only to have the sense knocked back into her as she once again was sent flying, this time both backwards and upwards, carried aloft on a wave of concussive force. The lieutenant crashed into the deck, her sword torn from her hand as she began her flight, her pauldron knocked askew by the impact. The mage, giving the same sinister grin she flashed at the first sailor she sent reeling, kicked Anne’s sword through a grate, into the hull. Out of reach, out of the fight.

---

The two men circled each other, each taking minor swipes at the other. The attacks were meant to test the opponent, not to inflict any damage. For what seemed like an hour, the duel progressed, neither side making any effort to strike. With a quick lunge, Captain Newall ended the game, aiming straight for the Commander’s heart. Far too experienced to be taken by surprise, the Commander raised his blade, deflecting the Captain’s cutlass harmlessly to the left. A number of cuts and thrusts followed from the Commander, each expertly blocked by his opponent. Back and forth they went, nothing more than a few minor scrapes on each.
“I grow bored with this game.” Captain Newall declared. “Hansel! Fransel! Now!”
At his command, two hulking brutes stepped out of the crowd, grabbing Commander Ridgebon by the arms and hoisting him from the ground.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Jackston. Expecting a pirate to fight fair? I’m disappointed in you,” Newall scolded, pacing back and forth between his captive. The Commander made no effort to respond. Even his face remained stoic, almost amused. “Well, we might as well end this!” Captain Newall drew his arm back to strike deep into Commander Ridgebon’s heart. In a flash, the Commander’s foot shot up, connecting with the Captain’s groin, sending him reeling on the floor, his sword clattering to the deck. Several sailors descended upon the men holding their Commander, quickly dispatching them and forming a barrier around the two officers.
“To the death, Newall.” Commander Ridgebon slowly walked up to the Captain, who was just starting to regain his footing, his fist clenched. A man of many tricks, however, Captain Newall quickly drew a dagger from his boot and lunged at the Commander, taking him by surprise, leaving the knife lodged in the Commander’s hip before falling to his knees. The Commander, born and raised a sailor, had grown accustomed to such pain, however: with a small groan, he drew the dagger from his own flesh, driving it down into his opponent’s back. “Now,” Ridgebon announced, addressing the pirate crew, “Get the hell off my ship.”

---

Anne and the mage paid no mind to the fight between the officers. They were both more worried with staying alive. As Anne recovered from the previous blast, she reached for her father’s dagger, always in her belt. Once again she charged the mage, who was visibly exhausted, physically and mentally, by this fight. Once again, two glowing blue orbs appeared in the mage’s hands, prepared to throw at her target. The first bolt struck the lieutenant’s right shoulder, sending her stumbling to the ground and knocking the dagger from her grip. With too much momentum to turn and grab the weapon, Anne resumed her charge, tackling the mage to the ground. Raining down blows with her leather-bound fist, Anne saw the mage’s hand, still holding the second orb, just as it was about to strike her. Not sure what to expect, the lieutenant grabbed the mage’s wrist with both hands, forcing her body weight down upon her young foe, inching the magical orb closer and closer to the mage’s chest.
In a final, desperate gambit, the mage forced the bolt from her hand, striking Anne just below her ribs. Without her armor to absorb the blow, Anne was taken aback by the force with which she was hit. She felt a rib crack, and fell to the ground, laying beside her magical opponent, who was unnaturally still. Her face bloody and swollen, the mage had summoned every last ounce of strength left in her body to throw her final spell, praying for a miracle. None came for her that day.
The day had been won. Captain Newall was dead, the Maiden of the Sea was in Aldorian custody, and losses were minimized on both sides. After getting patched up with the ship’s surgeon, Anne returned to her normal perch in the crow’s nest. She did not keep watch this night. She was too concerned with her fight against the mage, and how unprepared she was for such power. Silently, Anne prayed. She prayed for the souls of her crew mates who had been lost during the fight. She prayed for the pain in her ribs to stop. Mostly, though, she prayed to never have to fight another mage like that again.

Stanrick Longfang

“I see my brothers and I standing in a clearing. There are rocks piled on the ground, the sun is setting and even Mordok stay away from the clearing, the trees around are dead and dying. And I feel darkness all around me. It feels as if in this small patch of land Gaia has left behind and never wishes to return.”

Stanrick was kneeling in the small smoke filled room; across from him Soulvieg sat mixing a potion.

“Your dreams show a disgraced land.” She said not even looking at Stanrick.

“Sometimes, when an Ulven who lost their path that Gaia puts before them, and can not find their way before they pass they are not burned. They are put in the ground. Some believe that Gaia then cleans the spirit and then the spirit can go on its journey to meet the Great Wolf. Others believe that it is a way to punish the fallen spirit by keeping them from their journey. Such things are not up to us to decide. ”

“You mean like the graves where criminals are buried? I was told to never step foot on that land. I am surprised that so few know of this practice. ” Stanrick looked up at Soulvieg as she handed him the potion.

“It is that way for a reason. The High Priestesses of past generations had their reasons. One day you may have to set foot on the discarded lands. The one in your dream may be older than any we know of and you may need to go there for reasons I can not see yet. The runes speak riddles when consulted. Now drink that. It will clear your mind and help you sleep.” She got up as Stanrick turned his nose to the green liquid before he drank the potion. He coughed and grimaced at the taste.

“The place you saw may have been deep in the swamp. The runes tell me of something beyond our reach. The Daughters have divined it as well. Until the time comes when you need to know about it, you will not remember it… just like the rest.” Stanrick looked up, puzzled.

“The rest? What… what were we talking about?” he rubbed his head a little then got up.

“Stanrick, I asked you to come in here so we could talk about your plan to set up supply caches on the hunting trails. I think it’s a great idea.” He picked up his helmet off the ground.

“Oh… right, I forgot for some reason.” he said as she blinked and shook his head.

“I see you haven’t had any dreams lately, if you have any feel free to speak with me about it. Dreams can tell us a lot about our lives and the runes are sometimes tied to them.” Soulvieg smiled.

Stanrick nodded then he let him self out of the room. Rill was hidden in the corner but Soulvieg knew she was there.

“You can come out now, my child.” Rill came out from behind the curtains.

“Why do you make Stanrick forget his dreams?” she asked. “His dreams may or may not have truth he is not ready to handle. He has seen every one of his siblings fall. He has seen mates die. He saw the outsiders arrive when we thought we were the only ones in this world. Gaia has put much in his path and his dreams are a map that could guide him.

“I only make him forget them until he needs to know what he has seen… until we all know what he has seen.” replied the Runeseer with a grave tone.

Stanrick had a killer headache. He picked up a bottle of mead from the porch of the great hall and took a swig as he started for the gate.

“Stanrick!” he knew his mothers voice from anywhere and turned to look at her. “You need to take the young ones with you; Siren just let the chickens lose in the bunk house. And I’m not even going to say what Yawn did.” Youreden pulled Yawn by his ear out of the bunkhouse then went back in to grab Siren. “So you get them out of here and take them with you to the outpost, maybe you can find something for them to do.”

Stanrick finished the mead bottle then grabbed Yawn by the collar of his tunic and let Siren climb up on his back.

“Yeah I will figure out something for them to do.” he grumbled as he started to walk out of the village. Yawn flailed his arms madly and yelled at the top of his lungs. “Let me down! You gonna meet da great woof! I’ll bet you!!!” Siren was just glad to be with her dad.

“We’re going to the outpost! Out to the out post we go!” she sang as she played with Stanrick’s helmet. He scanned the pines looking for pineed sap as he went. “Ok you two lets play a game. Who can get me the most sap?” Siren jumped down and took off in to the trees. Yawn pumped his feet and Stanrick looked at him in amusement as he let him down and the two ran tree to tree picking up sap. “Remember how I taught you to pick it! Its no good if you damage it!” he yelled with a smile as he pulled out his pipe and lit it taking a drag before he started to take the walk to the out post. He passed two warriors heading back to the village and they nodded to Stanrick. Normally, he would not let his younger siblings run loose in the Pineed forest near the Village but this time of the year the harvest was in full swing. The entire woods was filled with hunters and warriors and they would be safe.

After Stanrick had returned from fighting humans, he was appointed as the quartermaster of the Outpost. He still thought he was a little young for the posting but he knew better then to question his great aunt. If she picked him then she had a reason, but he was starting to wonder if something was going on. This was the third time this month he had talked to Soulvieg but he did not ever recall walking in to her great hall. Every time she asked about dreams but he could not recall any. The thought was gone as he walked into the outpost and he climbed up the ladder and joined his younger brother Ranmir and looked out at the swamp.

Ranmir was just about a year younger then Stanrick. The two brothers watched the kids playing in the field with the wooden swords. Hunters walked back from the trails as other warriors began their patrols. “Stanrick, do you ever wonder if the Mordok believe in Gaia and the Great Wolf like we do? I mean, if we travel to the heart of the swamp, do you think they burn their dead and sing their praises?” Stanrick look at his brother and tried to see where this came from. “What? You’re kidding right?”

Ranmir headed for the ladder and started down. “No brother I mean it, the world as we have been raised to see it has changed. As children, we never knew of a world past the endless sea, yet humans and syndar have come to our lands telling stories of the dead walking. No Ulven has gone on the Long walk and returned. Maybe they had fallen or maybe they found a place to live in peace. We will never know unless we look.” He went down the ladder and went to grab his bag by the fire.

“Daddy, Daddy!” yelled Siren from outside the wall. Stanrick turned to look at his little girl. “Yes?” he asked her. She looked up and stuck out her tongue and made a strange sound “Bulipliplip” he smiled down at her and stuck out his tongue in return. “Bulipliplip”

In the corner of his eye he saw Ranmir walking out the outpost heading North. “So you’re going then? Did you tell mother?” Ranmir stopped and turned to look up at Stanrick.

“She knows as does Soulvieg, I have to do this Stanrick, this is the path Gaia has put to my feet. I don’t know what I will find but I know we will meet again.” With that Ranmir continued to walk as the moon rose in the east and soon the sight of him was lost in the trees.

Siren and Yawn climbed up to the look out and joined Stanrick. She pulled on Stanrick’s tunic. “Daddy where is uncle Ranmir going?” He looked at the tree line.

“I don’t know, but I believe we will see him again.”

Pack Goldmane

Aesaleif Goldmane toyed idly with a bit of partially carved wood. She was supposed to be on watch, but with all the ulven activity in the area recently, there had been no mordok to be seen for miles around. Her own pack had been marching up and down their territory for months, skirmishing with the incomers, though they hadn’t had word from them since news of the treaty had come a few days past. She couldn’t wait for them to settle with the incomers, so she could get her turn to look at them. She had heard that some of them had pointed ears, like the mordok, and wore strange clothing. Her mate, Valgeir, had promised to bring her back some trinkets, if he could.

A party of Graytide had come through a day or two before. She didn’t know most of them, except for Khulgar. He had taken Valdís as his mate, and had come looking for her, and their lively little daughter. Valdis had been visiting home when news of the treaty came through, and she just had to go with the pack to see the incomers in person.

Movement in the tree line alerted her, and she drew herself up, ready to sound the alarm in an instant. But the figures coming slowly out of the shadows were familiar, the Graytide party. She looked eagerly for her mate, or any of her pack, but was disappointed.
Still all talking with the incomers, no doubt.She thought to herself. The others and her would be glad for news though, she thought as she shouted a hearty greeting. She leapt down from her post, calling to the others that remained there, and they soon had gathered by the gates, eager to speak with the dour Graytide warriors.

But the Graytide had not met them at the gate. They waited at some distance away, Lycon conferring with Khulgar. Everyone around the gate fell quiet, and the eldest among them stepped forward, and greeted the Graytides again, this time far more somberly. Lycon did not return the greeting, but Khulgar walked towards them. Why Khulgar, instead of Lycon?
Because he took a Goldmane as a mate…her mind fretted, and fear blossomed inside her. As he drew closer, they could all see something in his red eyes. He halted before them, and the pack was as silent as death.
“Do you bring news of our warriors?” The eldest asked, in a trembling voice.
“Yes.” said Khulgar, hollowly. “They are dead. All of them.”

The Graytide escorted them to the bodies of their pack, laid out carefully in the snow. She found her father and her mate, her tear blurred eyes barely able to take in their wounds. The sounds of her packmates keening filled her ears, and her world became only grief, sorrow, wails, and blood on the snow.
The Graytide offered to help them build the funeral pyres, but they shrugged them off, allowing only Khulgar to carry wood for their dead. Everyone, though, honored them, and the trees resounded with their howls of grief, and the tales of their loved ones.
Before she gave him to the fires, she carefully removed a necklace from her mate’s torn throat. She had made it for him, to mark their first year together. His blood stained the sunburst she had carved painstakingly into the stone, and the image of him laid out in the snow burned itself into her heart. She wept then. She wept as she never had before, and, she vowed, as she never would again.

They greeted the dawn wearily and painfully, discovering that sometime in the night, the Graytide had left them. Some of the survivors guessed at their purpose, and grimly nodded satisfaction. They left to go back home, one last time, spreading the ashes of their mates, fathers, mothers, sons and daughters as they went.

It was three days later when the Graytide party returned, some of them now sporting new trophies from their sword belts. By that time, most of the remaining Goldmane had left, going to what kin they had left to them. Aesaleif, Otama, and another male were the only adults left, and Khulgar’s little girl. They gave over the little girl to her father, her confused wails painting the theme of the past few broken days.
“It was an ambush.” stated on of the warriors, emotionless. “The outsiders did not know of the treaty yet. When your pack went to greet them, they slaughtered them all.”
“Did you pay them back?” hissed the male Goldmane. “Did you kill them?”
“We made them pay, but it was not enough.” seethed Lycon, hissing in pain and anger as one of the warriors treated his sluggishly bleeding stump. His tunic was stained with blood, and all could see how much the loss of his arm pained him. They had no Daughter among them to heal it. “The Longfang interfered. They chose to uphold the treaty, and protected the outsiders.”
The Goldmane nodded. It was more revenge than they could have mustered alone. It would have to do for now.

The packs stared at each other for long moment, each unsure what was to be done now. The Goldmane were broken, beyond repair. They had no where to go.
“Come with us.” said Lycon, grimly. “There is nothing for you here, now. Our home is yours, and perhaps we may take revenge together, for those lost to us.”
The remaining Goldmane shared only a brief look among them, before taking the proffered arm, and the promise of vengeance.

Stanrick Longfang
Harlok Longfang

---

Two months had passed, two months of marching, sleeping in the wild, and fighting since Kragen Bloodmoon had come to Onsallas Outpost and requested that Pack Longfang send aid to fight off a new invader from the sea.

Stanrick was only twenty six but he had killed many Mordok in his life. He had been eager to join this fight and didn’t care who else was going to answer the call.

“And what of the Mordok? What of the swamp? Kragen, do you mean to take every warrior from us to fight some invaders that are your problem?” asked Norgoth.

Norgoth had only seen twenty three summers, and although he was a member of pack Longfang, he was not from the family Longfang.

“Why should we risk our lives for them?” He now directed his words to his pack. One of the young Graytide warriors who was traveling with Kragen stepped forward.

“Can you not see that this threat will not stop with just one pack? Do you really believe that they won’t come north and invade your village? You as a Longfang should understand that this is a threat to all Ulven!” Norgoth was about to give his reply with his mace but Stanrick spoke up first.

“Ekaj Shadowmane is right, if what Kragen Bloodmoon has said about these people from the sea is true then we should help.” Norgoth was alone in his feelings and Dennagrath approached Kragen and clasped his forearm.

“Kragen Bloodmoon, I believe I speak for all Longfang warriors in saying that we will go with you, for we know that a threat to one is a threat to all.”

With that the Longfangs marched to fight, singing the songs of old.

“The sword is sharp, the spear is long,
The arrow swift, the Gate is strong.
The heart is bold, the spirit old;
The Ulven Warriors have returned.

Farewell we call to hearth and hall!
Though wind may blow and rain may fall,
We must away, ere break of day
Far over the wood and mountain tall.

The Great Wolf watches from on high,
Gaia guides us, In the Night.
Our names will ring, and spirits sing!
If our bodies in battle fall!”

But it wasn’t as easy of a task as the Ulven thought this would be, the invaders were nothing like the Mordok. Humans and Syndar, strange looking people, and very well organized. The Humans looked like Ulven without fangs and no change in their eye, and reminded Stanrick of a pup who had changed late. The Syndar were stranger still, their ears made points. And skin of such strange colors! But the oddest part of the invaders was how they fought. The Mordok used hit and run tactics, raiding villages and traders, and the Ulven used hunting parties to raid the loosely organized groups of Mordok. But Humans had heavy armor and worked closely together, the Syndar used magic in battle, even the males. But the Ulven had worked like a wolf pack, picking off any who had been foolish enough to break their lines. Winter was coming and the night air was chilled. And this night was like every night since Kragen convinced Stanrick to leave his daughter and the rest of Onsallas Village behind.

Harlok held up three fingers on his right hand while fluttering up his fingers of his left under them.
“Three more for the pyre?” asked Stanrick.
Harlok nodded as he helped wrap a fallen warrior in linens and place him on the stack of logs. As was tradition, stories of the fallen were told and their spirits sent to the Great Wolf. The pyres burned so bright that the human’s camps saw them from miles away. Stanrick looked around the camp and he saw members of almost every local pack he could think of.
“We have more warriors in this one war party then I have seen in any one place.” He said as he lit his pipe.
“The War Pack was ready in a few weeks, but not all the locals are warriors. They are slow, and don’t know how to fight.” sneered Ekaj, who had been playing with the Syndar ears he had hanging from his neck.
“That is gross.” Said Mena Long fang.
“The Goldmane’s love it.” Ekaj grinned.
Mena had not always been a Longfang but joined after she had chosen Stanrick as a mate. She had been accepted in to the pack as a warrior and proven herself time and again. But now she did her best to hide the fact she missed her daughter.
“I’m going to sleep, you can play with your trophies.” She said and went into her tent.
“What’s her problem?” Ekaj asked Stanrick.
“You’re keeping trophies, some packs tend to be more upset over that then others, should have heard her the night Harlok brought home a Mordok scalp.” replied Stanrick.
Harlok looked up from his mead and grinned.
“You young warriors should get some rest, our scouts report that the Humans will be passing through the clearing in the valley to meet up with a larger group. Kragen wants to hit them while they move.” said Dennagrath.
Stanrick put out the pipe and joined Mena in their tent.
“Am I weak Stanrick?” She asked in a whisper as he lay next to her.
He could tell she was crying.
“Why would you say that?” He asked as he put his arms around his mate.
“I’m afraid I’m supposed to be a Longfang warrior and I froze in battle today, all I could think of was what if we all fall, who would protect Siren and Yawn? If it wasn’t for Vilkas giving his life I would have been on the pyre.”
“Mena, fear not. If we fall, Gaia will give our village the strength to go on and we will be with the Great Wolf.” With that, he kissed her forehead and the two drifted to sleep.

The Ulven had awakened before the sun horse had started his run,and had packed up and moved to the forest edge of the valley. The fog was so thick that you could not see ten feet away but that was not needed, because they could hear the Humans marching.
“Keep moving! And stay in formation!” a voice in the fog yelled.
Stanrick aimed his bow and waited for the signal. Kragen let out a howl and the archers loosed arrows in the direction of the marching humans.
“Shields Up! Box Formation Left Flank!” From what Stanrick knew of humans this meant that they were now facing the woods in a tight formation shields high to protect from arrows. The archers let off two more volleys then pulled out melee weapons to charge the human line.
The war cries of the Ulven started low then rose up like thunder. A flood of steel, leather and fangs came from the tree line to smash upon the rock like human line. The fog began clear out of the valley just enough that Stanrick could see the lines of shield men.
“Protect the women and children! Keep the line!” Yelled a man was sitting on top of a horse. The Ulven had never seen a horse big enough to ride. This beast was large enough to hold a man that must have been over 6 feet tall on foot covered from head to toe in steel.
There must have been at least thirty humans, about half that of the War Pack. Soon he too had smashed upon the wall of steel, hacking, slashing and stabbing at any opening he could find.

“You have fought the Undead and lived! These Ulven do not rise from the grave, let your…AHHH!” The man fell from his horse as Dennagrath pulled him down. His fangs exposed, he let out a victorious howl as he stood over the fallen leader of men. Some had broken off to run but most of the line held.
“Good, I am tired of their stupid ghost stories.” growled Ekaj as he cut down one of the fleeing men. Stanrick focused on the task at hand. His shield was shattered but he pushed on to break the human’s line. He no longer knew how many had fallen to his blade when he heard a scream of rage and his heart sunk. He looked back but all he could see were humans and Syndar. Mena had thrown away her shield and began to hack at the humans in her way, screaming like a banshee of legend. Stanrick fought to get to her, to be by her side but she lost momentum and fell to her knees before a man with a two handed sword. He tried to yell out to her but it was too late, the human took off her head in one fell swoop.
The Human spit at Mena’s body and called her a bitch. Rage filled Stanrick’s blood and he charged the man who was about a foot taller than him. The man turned to face him grinning but not for long, Stanrick had slashed him in the leg and he collapsed to the blood covered grass.
“No, please don’t kill me!” he cried out but his plea fell on deaf ears and Stanrick finished him as quickly as he could. He was so struck with grief he did not see the other Longfangs still fighting the humans that were trying to protect their young. The battlefield was no place for children. Ulven learn to fight at an early age and even killed Mordok as early as four years of age but this was with older pack members, near home against a foolish Mordok that had been scouting too close to a village. To bring the young to a battle like this though made no sense. Harlok had just plunged his spear into a human that was trying to sneak up behind Stanrick.
Harlok showed his fangs in anger; if he still had his tongue, he would have been yelling about how stupid Stanrick was as he pulled him up off his knees. Only then seeing Mena’s lifeless form, he frowned then made a gesture of words going up to the Great Wolf.
Stanrick nodded “Yes, her name will ring.”

The fighting had moved away to the other side of the clearing as the humans and Syndar now tried to make their way to the road to escape to their camps. Stanrick and Harlok ran to meet with the rest but they were few in number. Stanrick looked around for other Ulven warriors. Kragen was finishing off the last of the humans that had been in his way. And Ekaj was cutting off a human’s finger. A few others had been fighting with a few footmen that had stood their ground to protect their comrades. Then he saw his father cut down a heavily armored man. Dennagrath made sure he was dead and made way back to the rest. Then it was as if time had stopped. He looked into his father’s eyes, drake green lupine eyes. He had seen this before in a nightmare. He knew what was happening and could not stop it. From the mist, a Syndar arrow pierced Dennagrath, then another and third. The life drained out of his eyes, and Dennagrath Longfang, warrior of pack Longfang fell to the ground.

Stanrick didn’t remember the end of the battle. Ekaj and a few others from clan Grimward gave chase to the humans and returned with the heads of several humans. The warriors that remained had gathered the dead, Ulven, human and Syndar.
“We burn them all, the invaders in that pile. Put our brothers and sisters on the pyre. Tonight we will tell stories and the names of our fallen will ring in his ears!” shouted Kragen. Harlok mended Stanrick’s wounds, as he smoked his pipe.
“We are the only Longfang to survive the battle?” asked Stanrick
Harlok paused and nodded he held up six fingers.
“We lost six in that battle?”
Harlok nodded again then ripped the bandage with his teeth. They got up and walked to the pyres, Stanrick thinking of stories to tell so the Great Wolf would hear their deeds.

(views seen by most recent pack chieftain, Darvrick Icewolf, as written in his journal 10-12 years ago)

What can I say about the Icewolves? We are hunters of day and night, we are known for many things. Compassion? Well that’s a different story, only for our young. I hope someday Salguod finds this journal so that he may know that he was important not only to his mother but to me as well. But I am to talk about the pack.

A few months ago I was approached by one of our eldest Witches. She told me of a Mordok attack that would weaken us to our core and most would not survive. She told me only the strongest would survive. She told me there would be a strong evil force that has never been seen before by our kind. She said that no one would listen or aid us, but there was hope. She also told me of a betrayal that will happen years from now by our clan to some of our friends. Then she told me of a civil war. She continued to tell me of things but the rest all seemed like babble to me Of course, out of respect I let her continue, then I ask, “Is there a way around this with minimal casualties?” There was a glint in her eye, almost as if she was waiting for me to ask.

She says, “There is a way. Do not contact any of the other packs or clans. Talk with the heads of the families and get cooperation to make plans to have them disappear during the attack. Have a strong fighting force to oppose the attack. I will arrive later and let you know.”

The Icewolves are known to be courageous, and to be feared by our enemies. We are warriors and hunters. Some are archers and farmers. What to do? Listen to the old Hag? Or have our great pack extinguished overnight? As for Salguod? He is the next in line to be chieftain. He is already respected on his own, even some of my advisers are in favor of him to be chieftain. As for a clan betrayal in years to come? Civil War? She has to be crazy.

He is my son. I cannot bear to lose him. There will be danger for all. I will send him away, on a hunt or something. He must live, for I might not.

So, I spent the next couple of days with the heads of the families in secret meetings to explain what the old Witch said, and we devised a plan for the pack to disperse among the packs and clans of their choosing. I told them not to introduce themselves as Icewolves and to avoid our clan, the Whiteoak. There was much doubt and confusion, but I made them listen. I told them to wait until the time was right. When Salguod was ready to take on the chieftain role, he should look for any remaining Icewolves to back his cause. Even though he may think the pack is gone, he will still believe that there will be few left.

Out of the Seven families, there has to be some left.
Gaia and Salguod, forgive me for what I must do to protect you.

Year 250: Just outside of the Newhope colony

“We are going to freeze to death before you fix that.” said Brynor.

He tried to bundle his cloak more tightly around himself. The snow was assaulting the travelers in sheets. Brynor’s hands were frozen to the point where he no longer had the dexterity to pull a drawstring, nor gather up the hem of his cloak. His futile attempt at stopping the cold made him look all the more miserable.

“After all we’ve been through, and after we have come so far, we are going to freeze.” he muttered through clenched teeth.

“No we aren’t. We just need to get the wagon wheel fixed and we’ll be back to Newhope by sundown” said Norel, Brynor’s brother, squinting and stopping to brush the snow off his face as he pried the broken wheel off the wagon’s frame.

“But you have to agree that we are cursed with a run of bad luck.” said Brynor, “We spent almost all of our money to pay for a spot on the boat to leave Aldoria. We braved the winds and the waves of the ocean only to finally arrive on Mardrun in the heart of a blizzard. And now, here we are on the side of the road with a broken wheel and our only form of income being the hope of selling a load of supplies that are stuck in the snow.” said Brynor as he stood there, uselessly watching Norel struggle with the wheel.

“Why don’t you shut up and actually make yourself useful and help me fix this damn wheel. You’re just standing there like an oaf!” snapped Norel.

“Quiet! Both of you!” hissed Gainen, their escort and the closest thing to a bodyguard that they had.

Gainen had been hired to tag along with the two brothers for a cut of their sales once they arrived at Newhope. He was no professional mercenary or soldier, but he was handy with a sword. Like many of the refugees from Faedrun, he was lucky to have arrived with the coat on his back.

Brynor opened his mouth to say something, but fell silent as Gainen’s blade cleared its scabbard. Judging by his posture and intense focus on the road in front of him, something was out there, just out of sight, obscured in the thick falling snow. For what seemed like an eternity, all three of them stood completely still. Nothing came into view and the only noise was the howling of the wind. The wind died down, and the world was silent save the gentle patter of falling snow. No one moved. Each man held his breath.

Through the snow came the distinct creak of a drawn bow and the whistling release of an arrow. Gainen recognized the noise and tried to duck out of the way, but he was too late. The arrow sunk almost fletching deep below his left hip, punching through the long leather jerkin he wore beneath his cloak. With a startled cry, Gainen collapsed to the ground on the path. He struggled to rise, but a second arrow snapped through the air and buried itself deep into his right thigh. Gritting his teeth, Gainen tried to claw his way back to the wagon while still clutching his sword out in front of him in a feeble attempt to shield himself. Brynor and Norel stood dumbfounded with terror, unable to move as the events unfolded in front of them.
The dark shapes of three Mordok emerged from the path and stepped close enough to be seen through the driving snow. With their hideous bestial faces, filthy rags, and blood caked furs, they seemed to melt forth from the whirling whiteout like monsters out of a nightmare. Their crude armor was adorned with trinkets and trophies. One of them had a severed human hand nailed to its shield. The world was silent save the falling snow and the ragged breath of Gainen as he lie bleeding in the snow. Two of the skulking forms moved quickly towards the wounded guard to take advantage of his crippled state and the third Mordok knocked another arrow. The archer took its time, pulled back the bow, and sighted in on Brynor. Finally snapping out of his stupor, the merchant back peddled and tried to run. He’d complained about freezing before, but that now he really was about to die, that whole tiff with his brother seemed rather juvenile.

The Mordok archer suddenly jolted to the side as a thrown javelin sank into its shoulder. The impact jarred its hands and the arrow whistled out of the bow, wildly off target. Before the archer had time to recover, another dark shape moved in close. Steel flashed against the whiteness and an axe head buried itself haft deep into the sternum of the Mordok. The sickening crunch of its rib cage collapsing echoed through the stillness. The Mordok archer let out a rattling cry that ended in a wet gurgle as hot steaming blood gushed from its thorasic cavity and into its upper airway. The monster’s fall was muffled by the deep snow. The axe wielder stepped on the corpse and rocked the head of his weapon free of the Mordok’s chest with a wet crunch.

The two remaining Mordok roared and turned to meet the new threat. As they charged in, the dark shape moved to meet them and was now visible, clad in brown armor, a full helm, mail of steel, and furs. He carried a shield with white tribal markings on it. From behind the figure came several more dark shapes in armor and the two sides crashed head on. Axes and swords flashed through the air, cleaving into armor, furs, and the flesh of both sides. Spear tips darted out at range. One of the armor clad figures pushed a Mordok to the ground and slit its throat with a dagger, but not before the Mordok used a wicked looking knife to slice his opponent’s arm open. Another Mordok was taken apart by numerous strikes and a stab to the stomach. It slowly slumped to the ground as the spear was twisted free. The encounter was quick, bloody, and brutally quiet, but all three Mordok were dead.
Still awestruck by the violence they had just witnessed, Brynor and Norel could do nothing but stare. These strangers, these warriors, had come to their rescue and saved them from a horrible fate at the hands of the Mordok… monsters that eat the flesh of the living and boil the people they kill down to bones.

Brynor, who had taken up a hiding spot behind the wagon with Norel after the archer’s shot missed, smiled and ran forward to greet their saviors.

“Praise the gods, I can’t believe it! You saved our lives! I can’t thank you enough for…”

“Brynor! No! Get back!” yelled Gainen through gritted teeth, still on the ground holding his wounded legs as blood pooled in the snow beneath him.

It wasn’t Gainen’s warning that made Brynor stop dead in his tracks. It was what he saw when he got close enough to the figure clad in the blood spattered armor. Instead of the Newhope guard that Brynor had expected, a man with piercing yellow eyes stood before him. The intensity of those eyes chilled Brynor far more than the snow and freezing wind that whipped his cloak around him. The man’s lips curled back to show enlarged and feral canine fangs. Not a single word was spoken, but Brynor felt as if the man before him were sizing him up and was debating on how he wanted to kill him. They would all die here, on the path, ripped limb from limb by those who could kill even the monstrous Mordok. Brynor held his breath and waited for his fate to be decided.

After what seemed like an eternity, the armor clad figure grunted a signal to those behind him and pushed passed Brynor. There were eight other warriors total, both male and female. Four of them pulled on a rope connected to two makeshift sleds formed from tree branches. On each sled lay the motionless shape of a warrior. Their flesh was pale, and the snow that fell upon their faces did not melt. One of the walking warriors who was not dragging a corpse, a female archer with a wounded arm, walked close to Gainen, dropped a couple bandages near him, and continued to walk on. The warriors continued along the path until the driving snow seemed to consume them.

With renewed vigor, Norel fixed the wagon. Brynor helped apply the bandages to Gainen’s legs and moved him into the back of the cart, where he passed out from pain and blood loss. He was in bad shape, but if they could find a healer soon, he might live. Darkness was setting in. They pushed the cart on the trail with haste and continued towards Newhope, the bodies of the Mordok already beginning to be covered by the falling snow. They continued on for almost a mile before either one of them spoke.

“Who… what were those?” said Brynor meekly, finally breaking the silence.

“I don’t know. The guards at the port told us about the Mordok, but nobody said anything else. I heard rumors of another colony here on Mardrun, but those things… they weren’t human. Did you see their eyes? Their fangs? I would never believe it unless I saw it tonight here with you, but those warriors were…” said Norel, who paused as their wagon wheel hit an unexpected bump in the center of the road and jolted to a stop.

The wheel had hit the side of a mound in their path. As Norel and Brynor looked down to see what it was, they noticed that there were more mounds in the road. Uneven lumps in the snow, scattered about… human shaped lumps. On the trail before them were ten bodies almost completely covered in snow. The wheel of the cart had brushed the snow off of the closest corpse, revealing a human in bloody armor and a tabard. The insignia on the corpse was that of the guards of Newhope.

“…demons…” finished Norel with a broken and shaky voice. Brynor and Norel dislodged the cart from the corpse and ran as fast as they could towards the gates of Newhope.

Stanrick Longfang

 

 

Dennagrath Looked out over the hill looking down at the Outpost, for the last 7 years He had made his home with the Longfangs, and proven time and Time again to be a warrior worthy of the name. He had left his old home and pack so he could help raise his 6-year-old son and too be with his mate. He was old now almost 60 yet the fire never left his eyes. In his old pack he was a craftsman and carpenter before joined his chieftain to venture to the Dirge swamp. They stayed at the outpost, and that was where he met Yoredon Longfang, his skills had gained her attention when he returned from the swamp with a Longfang hunting party, if he would have passed away that night the great wolf would know his name. But what made her pick him was his skills with a knife for 2 weeks he carefully made figures for her out of wood, the last on was a male and female ulven with a pup, as she studied them by fire light she saw it was her self and him. 7 mouths later she had her pup, a boy non-the less. Dennagrath joined the pack and became a full Longfang. He smiled at the outpost happy to have it be his home then turned to look at his son. “Stanrick!!! Its dead you will break the mace if you keep hitting it like that!” the 6 year old pup had 4 notches on the mace handle and this Mordok would make it 5. But with the first 4 his father never saw the fear that young Stanrick had in his eyes.
“What’s wrong pup?” he asked picking him up and holding him close.
“What if it gets back up? I want it t stay dead!” Dennagrath tilted his head and looked closely at the deformed Mordok. “I don’t think he’s getting up you killed him dead.”
Stanrick grabbed tight not wanting to look at the body. “It did in my dream. I was big and strong and so was little Harlok we killed an army of Mordok in the night with others by our side’s but they got back up and we killed them again! I had a little brother and mommy died, but you weren’t there and some green person fighting with us! We killed them over and over but they got up again!” he stopped talking to take a breath. Dennagrath laughed. “That is quite a dream! A green person you say was he an ulven or Mordok?”
Stanrick push away and jumped down turned to the bloody pile of Mordok and gave it a kick. “SHE was not a Mordok, or a Ulven.” His father laughed again. “Ok, ok I understand. Lets burn this Mordok and head home ok? Like I always say fire fixes everything.” Stanrick ran around getting sticks and brush and making a pier for the Mordok. The pup took his flint and hit it with a knife starting the fire, as the flames consumed the body Stanrick pulled at his fathers pant leg. “Daddy why do we burn the Mordok? We don’t honor them as fallen warriors do we?” Dennagrath tussled the pup’s hair. “No pup, but see the ash? From the death Gaia will bring life, trees will grow here Tall and strong. If we let it rot it, his blood will kill the trees.” Stanrick watched the flames as he cut a new notch in his mace. The sun set and as the fire died off the little ulven drifted to sleep. His father picked him up and took him home. “Sleep well pup, the dead do not walk.”