War in the Valstock Mountains

A weak winter sun shone lazily down lifting its trailing bulk over the tallest peaks of the Valstock Mountains. A mist swirled hazily over the ranges' mountainous hips, cascading into a denser fog in the valley below. Where the stately pine trees punctured the mist a soft twittering song perforated the day announcing the presence of the more benevolent kind of winged creature inhabiting the island province of Lethe. The fog swirled denser still through the great trunks and skirts of the pines fading the sun further down the valley into an ever more diffuse oval.

Telaria glanced up from her cooking pot and wrinkled her nose.
"Sister, surely your stewed hare is not so bad as that!" quipped Arathon, never one to miss an opportunity.
"Brother dearest, indeed it is no worse than the stewed hair upon your head, were I to dunk your razor-tongued jaw into the broth" came the lightning reply.
"Unfortunately today's seasonal serving of weather gives me more pause for thought than either hare or hair together. It is a drab day made worse by recent events."
Arathon's face clouded over, "Yes, sadly this is true."
They both stared sombrely into the whirling cooking pot as though the swirling juices would divine their answers.

A low howl drifted over the trees fading quickly into the mist. Arathon paused to cock his head.
"Remind me again sister" he began, but Telaria cut him off. "Just keep walking." He watched her striding confidently, her slender neck nestled in the crook of her labrys where one head sprouted from the haft and fanned out into a mean edge. She was tall but not overly so, strong and yet still somehow womanly. He was glad of her levelheaded ways now more than ever.

The second howl pierced the fog and this time it was Telaria's turn to pause. The swirling density made it difficult to discern but all her experience told her it was an answering call. Her senses strained and were rewarded with a faint disruption on the edge of audibility. She nodded slowly and slunk off through the trees without looking back.

"How did we let this happen"
"What do you mean, we? This is her mess!"
"Jordren please, be reasonable. This is the first wolf crisis for a very long time. Telaria's hunts and patrols have worked thus far."
Jordren baulked, "How can I be reasonable! Three of my prize sheep massacred in one night, indeed. That's bad enough, but what cost had they been kin."

Jordren had continued to rant, his anger driven harder by the fear in his account. A respected farmer and pillar of the community, the shock in his voice over the very things he proposed was evident. Dark shapes in the night, huge and lumbering, seen in ghostly silhouette against the backdrop of his bleating sheep. Had he drawn the shades last night, the situation in their village could be at once clear, but perhaps more dire than ever.

No-one alive in Vallendale could remotely claim to have seen a dragon, indeed, no-one alive could have even borne witness to a first hand account of such a creature, so long had the word slipped from Vallendalean lore. Yet here they were, old Jordren Mordlheim alternately dancing around the oral depiction of one and yet scoffing at its very mention. So superstition and shadows aside, the only firm rational explanation fell to a concurrently age-old enemy; the humble wolf pack.

The howls were closer together now, and louder. They both paused, shooting glances at each other in the way that only a brother and sister can.
"Who is hunting whom in the depths of this frozen fog?"

Soon the howling ceased and the more terrifying sound of the after-silence descended over the woodland. Adrenaline pumped and sinews flexed, axes and bows at the ready. But then a new sound drifted in, a sound that neither hunter expected. The sound of a thunderous roar intermingled with a sickening crunch and an explosion of barking, yelping and growling. The two exchanged another glance and, as one, pelted forward toward the battle sounds.