Volbjorn’s honey eyes flickered an amber glow in the light of the fire as he knelt by its warmth. He breathed slow, deep inhales with measured, prolonged exhales as he focused his mind and body on the task ahead. He knew now it was by design the little sparrow lead his steps to the town of Combe, and as he sat he began to recall the events that led him into the dark of Chetwood under the black of the New Moon.
He had followed the peculiar sparrow since Archet. Its flutter, to those unwise in these matters, would be a playful, amusing sight to behold. Such a whimsical carefree nature displayed in one so small. But to the vagrant known as Volbjorn, this display had a deeper meaning. The bird was desperate, frantic, wanting. But to what, he could not tell. And so, he followed the sparrow, and the closer Volbjorn got, the further the sparrow led him away. It wasn’t until he came upon the small town of Combe that he lost sight of the bird, only to be greeted by the bawking of two woodcutters at a nearby stall.
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“It ain’t right I tells ye.” Barked the gruff lumberman brandishing an axe. “These wolves is getting’ bolder by the day. An’ they've gotten none smaller neither.” His companion silently nodded in agreement, continuing his thought “Aye, We’ve been cuttin’ these woods…it be the seventh year now..an’ these wolves be getting’ only bigger. Meaner to!” One spat. “It’s them Blackwolds I tells ye! They’re ‘idin’ somethin’ in those woods. I’ve ‘eard rumors of a mighty beast indeed in there. A wolf thrice their size!”
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Volbjorn took a long draught of his skin, its contents too fermented to be called water, though too sweet to be called mead. A makeshift brew he had learned in his travels; honey, mint, clear river water, and a few other herbs. He had always felt this draught fill him with vigor, and if he knew was to come, he would need it…
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A ruffian gurgled as his feet left the ground, dropping his hatchet in both pain and fear as the mountain of a man dug the shaft of his spear into him further, lifting his poor corpse into the air and thrusting it clean away, smacking lifelessly against the tree. Only one Blackwold remained alive, frozen in terror as the Mountain thew an amber gaze of cold fury in his direction. The Blackwold dared not move a muscle.
“Where…” Was the growl that came out of the man. A word so simple yet so commanding given the scene that played out around him. The Blackwold stuttered “I-I don’t…I don’t know anythin’ I swear!” He heard the crack of wood against bone before he felt his leg give way, the butt of the man’s spear rounding back to its owners side as the Blackwold cried out in pain. Again, the deep growl emerged from the shadowy hulk of a man. “The Warg...” The Blackwold felt the cold point of a speartip at his throat. "Where...”. He lost all reason, all sense of fierce loyalty he had only moments ago as he vomited everything the man needed to hear, pleading through weeping murmers that the man would just spare his life…
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Volbjorn glanced at his spear leaning against the tree as he listened closely to the sounds of the forest. He knew he would not need it, not for what he was about to do. A howl echoed not too far away. Shrill, ghostly, not the Warg he sought, but a wolf. A moment of brief moment of pity was shed by the creatures seduced by the dark. Opportunists they were, though not stupid in their ways…it was surely a warning to the beast Volbjorn sought. He was waiting….
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Six of them, Volbjorn counted, six wolves surrounded him, snarling with bared teeth ready to attack. He had to act quickly, for the wolves would surely give him less time than he wanted. “You value your lives?” Volbjorn snarled in their tongue. His serious tone was only strengthened by his posture and bearing, for the language of beasts was as much body as it was speech. A pause by the pack’s leader, surely surprised by one who knows their tongue. “Do you yours, man thing? It is no matter. The only value we see before us is food.” The leader began to circle as the conversation continued in snarls and growling undertones. “Plenty men dead in these woods…why risk losing your own?” Volbjorn snapped “Do we stoop to such lowly means of food, man-thing? You dare see us as such things?” The wolves slowly began to close in, cautious however…something was holding them back. “I see measure behind those wicked eyes…and hesitation…you’ve been watching me…you see what I can do to the men you call masters…” The wolf barked in defiance, the comment appeared to cut deep, in its way. “Man things? Masters? Ha! Do not be so naïve…you know our language…you know our pride.” Volbjorn’s eyes narrowed “Then who is this Lord I hear you call to at night?” The wolves paused, an echo in the distance caught their attention. The pack leader chuffed in bemusement eyeing Volbjorn with a mischievous eye rather than one of hunger “You will find out soon enough…man-thing…He watches all in these woods…and you just caught his attention.” Without another word, The pack slunk back into the trees, leaving Volbjorn to ponder…and plan…
--
The growl was close…deep...menacing. Though the glint of the firelight Volbjorn could just make out a large, black shape in the dark, a glint of fiery red, the eyes of his quarry. He rose to his feet, standing defiant against the circling beast. The time was nigh, and tonight, the woods will be rid of this evil. Voljorn lurched forward as his form expanded, thick brown fur cloaking his body and bulking out his frame. His eyes burned its own amber fury as his growl became booming, like boulders grating against one another. In an instant, the Warg saw what was before him and charged forward, Volbjorn following suit. By the light of the flickering fire, the pair of monstrosities lunged at one another, through the night, the roars, yelps and bellows echoed through the trees, woodcutters fled to their cabins, guards kept their weapons close, but soon after it began, all went silent, save for one, final, bellow through the dark.
