Wardwood Mule
When the frost spreads silver on the ground,
When the birds have vanished, southward-bound;
When the wintry forest makes no sound,
The Wolves are coming here.
When the ice rests thick upon the mere;
When the fields lie fallow, far and near—
We wash the snow from our narrow bier,
For the Wolves are almost here.
There is silence in the wooded hills,
Silence where the river spills,
Silence when the kit-hawk kills;
The Wolves are here—the Wolves are here.
- A Sunderlander children's rhyme
On the third of January, after night had fallen and the silent trees looked like ghosts in the darkness, bowed beneath heavy white mantles of snow, a stranger walked into an inn.
He was uncommonly tall and slender. His hair was a fine, near-white pale, like those men and women who lived in the high North, and his green eyes were bright and cruel. He wore a heavy cloak of furs. "Wolf pelts," whispered one man to another, and shuddered when that green gaze fell upon him. He hadn't spoken loudly enough for the stranger to hear.
"Good evening," the stranger said. "I am a traveler from the North, wearied by my long journey. I have no coin to pay you with, but I'll gladly trade you tales for wine." He had a peculiar voice—higher than one would expect, and hoarse from disuse.
The people in the inn shifted uneasily. Who was this man, who could brave a journey from the North in such weather? But they were starved for tales of the outside world, so they let him sit and drink. The innkeeper was a hospitable host, and furnished him also with a bowl of steaming soup and a piece of bread.
The stranger perched on the edge of a table instead of taking a chair, and stared at the cup they handed him as if he had never seen such a thing before in his life. He could not be persuaded to touch the food, nor the utensils, though he considered the latter for a long, strange moment, his bright eyes narrowed. Then he drank and began to speak.
He spoke of a peculiar northern sea with strange, powerful currents. Any vessel lost there was bound to be seen again. The few who dared sail across it saw the ancient wrecks of ships rising up from the deep like specters, borne forward by the indomitable tide. The Sea of Splinters, it was called—for when the submerged wrecks breached the surface, their thin, rotting masts protruded treacherously from the water like the husks of dead trees.
He spoke of leviathans encased in ice, and entire northern villages built from their bones.
"Are there Wolves in the north?" one man asked.
The stranger smiled, as if at a private joke, and said, "No."
The people in the inn relaxed as the night wore on. They felt warm and at peace with the world, with this stranger, even if they had had nothing to drink. Some of them noticed that occasionally, when the light hit him a certain way, his fingers looked longer or his teeth looked sharper. His cloak became ragged and stained. The wine on his lips looked like blood, as if blood belonged there. Some listened carefully to his voice and wondered if he was, indeed, a man. (One even wondered if the spoons and knives were made of iron.) None of them felt compelled to comment.
"And when the ocean ice thaws at the beginning of summer," he said airily, his bright gaze distant, "ah, you would not believe the sound it makes. I cannot even describe it to you. A terrible noise, a squealing and snapping—almost a wailing—I have heard it can drive men mad, if they live there at the edge of the world." His stare finally settled on them again. He smiled a thin, pale, gracious smile that didn't reach his eyes, and didn't show any of his teeth. "How I miss it."
Around the inn, in the darkness where the snow-mantled trees looked like ghosts, a multitude of shapes stood watching. The yellow light from the windows made their shadows stretch long and black across the ground. Their breath rose as steam.
No one knows precisely what happened there, for no one lived to tell it. Only two things are certain: that in the early hours of the morning the town nearby heard terrible noises—the sort that might drive a person mad if he listened to them long enough—and that no one would ever use the inn again, for it had to be burned. Among the bloody Wolf-prints leading out of it, there was one pair that seemed to belong to a man.
WOLVES HAVE RETURNED TO SUNDERLAND.
A list of previous meta updates can be viewed here!
Were it not for the harsh weather trapping everyone indoors, Sunderland would be thrown into a panic. The sporadic disappearances of the winter
solstice have escalated, seemingly without warning, into the slaughter of entire villages on Sunderland's northern border—especially those near the
Wardwood. The Wolves are the size of horses, say the few survivors, and emerge from the mists as silently as shadows; they shake off musket fire
as they might a bee-sting. If rumors are to be believed, the Queen has already delivered a battalion of three hundred men to investigate the threat…
only for it to vanish into the driving snow without a trace.
And people whisper that the Wolves are not alone, that something else walks among them, a tall, pale creature that looks like a man but is not one.
While some Sunderlanders brave the winter storms to leave desperate offerings at the edge of the Wood, others drive nails into their trees and hang
cold iron from their doors. Grim patrols have begun to gather at dusk to watch over the towns closest to the forest, Oldcastle included, and there are
more than a few chosen and hedge witches among them.
Yet a feeble spark of hope holds the encroaching dark at bay, for people whisper also that guardians have begun to awaken—majestic stags and hinds
that speak as in the legends of old. The handful of chosen whose guardians have awakened will soon find themselves subject to an endless stream of
fearful supplicants wanting to touch their guardians, to speak to them, as if in doing so they might be blessed and spared...
A list of previous meta updates can be viewed here!
Were it not for the harsh weather trapping everyone indoors, Sunderland would be thrown into a panic. The sporadic disappearances of the winter
solstice have escalated, seemingly without warning, into the slaughter of entire villages on Sunderland's northern border—especially those near the
Wardwood. The Wolves are the size of horses, say the few survivors, and emerge from the mists as silently as shadows; they shake off musket fire
as they might a bee-sting. If rumors are to be believed, the Queen has already delivered a battalion of three hundred men to investigate the threat…
only for it to vanish into the driving snow without a trace.
And people whisper that the Wolves are not alone, that something else walks among them, a tall, pale creature that looks like a man but is not one.
While some Sunderlanders brave the winter storms to leave desperate offerings at the edge of the Wood, others drive nails into their trees and hang
cold iron from their doors. Grim patrols have begun to gather at dusk to watch over the towns closest to the forest, Oldcastle included, and there are
more than a few chosen and hedge witches among them.
Yet a feeble spark of hope holds the encroaching dark at bay, for people whisper also that guardians have begun to awaken—majestic stags and hinds
that speak as in the legends of old. The handful of chosen whose guardians have awakened will soon find themselves subject to an endless stream of
fearful supplicants wanting to touch their guardians, to speak to them, as if in doing so they might be blessed and spared...
SPOKELSE
Owned by Rejam | Bonded to Petra Turnbull | Cert & Uncert
WREN
Owned by and be blue | Bonded to Leslie Warwick | Cert & Uncert
CESAMBRE
Owned by phoenix kiss | Bonded to Captain William Talbot | Cert & Uncert
OBERON
Owned by Nyx Argyros | Bonded to Rajani | Cert & Uncert
CADENCE
Owned by LoveByLetters | Bonded to Macaire Draughn | Cert & Uncert
