Under the great tree, the vrykul sat. Chosen few, Odynâs blessed of the clan had heeded the call of the aged Skald that stood swaying in the moonlight. The ancient tongue hissed at his lips, the vision still vivid in his mind.
All far too familiar. They had seen it in one before. However, The fire haired woman who stood impatiently found no amusement or hope in the Skaldâs early words. Each whisper on his lips drew the wrinkles of her nose deeper. âI grow tired of these games, why have the seers not spoken of these visions? Why have they come to a Skald?â Her voice was wrought with irritation, but her words drew the grunts of the others, affirmation that her criticism was not just single minded.
The Skald stopped, looking back to her. His eyes were widened. âThe statue.â His gnarled finger pointed to the stone lupine effigy placed amidst the plains of Duskholme. The memorial was tall, titanic in its own right⌠But two pinpricks of light roiled amidst itâs eyes, and itâs mouth shortly burst into flames, the fire licking at the stone wolfâs raised hackles.
The fiery haired woman could only open her mouth in confusion, before the grasses around the statue rippled. They watched the wave race upon the plainslands, wiping away the fires and lights within the surrounding village. When it reached the small gathering, the gale battered them with the force of a maelstrom.
Another rippled from the statue, although Frijalda the Fire-haired had already grabbed her sword and began to run down the hillside. The other warriorâs had begun to shout, following after their chieftain. They could hear the Skaldâs laughter, his hands lifting up.
âAnd lo, with mighty gales and fire in his eyes-â
The gale battered the group once more yet Frijalda forced herself to weather it on her feet. The world was consumed by the braying and tipping of wolves.
âBy wind and storm and lupine cries-â
The Skald was beside himself, shouting amidst the roars of the storm that tore at the trees and the plains that surrounded them. Frijalda was only halfway to the statue, but she could see the fire and lightning that erupted at its feet.
âFrom Valorâs Halls resting in blessed skies-â
The fire had taken the form of a man, tall, with bronzed flesh and golden eyes. Frijaldaâs eyes widened as the lightning streaked across the figures flesh, knotted tattoos embedded with gold raced across his legs, his left arm, his face. Her mouth hung open, and her hands dropped.
The vrykul glared down at her, his chest heaving his eyes wild. She recognized his face. In an instant she knew who he was.
The Skaldâs last words rang amongst the vrykul, the undead, the humans who had come to the effigy with swords and axes drawn. Their gaze was locked upon the naked man who stood before them, panting and wild-eyed.
âI was there when the Ulvleder returned.â
There was silence, watching the man regard each with his teeth bared. Finally, Bodolf shouted, his fist raised in the air. Slurred fury.
Awe became confusion. A few of the vrykul began to laugh, whether it was shock or true mirth was left to be explored. He swayed, taking a deep breath.
âAnd I canât feel my legs.â
With both hands lifted, the man let out a roar. At first it was not echoed, but the second was joined with a cacophony that would shake the heavens. With that, the vrykul fell backwards, unconscious and draped amongst the feet of his own memorial.
