The bite of the sword combined with the burn of the silver shield was simply too much. The wolf’s assault turned immediately into regret as he rapidly withdrew, putting as much distance as possible between he and the fallen knight. There was a brief moment in which he consider racing back in and attempting to grab the man by the head, but hesitation lost him the chance.

Switching from one front paw to the next to allow relief from the burns, he watched with flattened ears as the man stood and lifted his weapon. The lupundra’s teeth were bared instantly, but this time his lips were drawn back rather than pulled forward. The shouting was met with a low growl The wolf turned his head away, but kept his eyes on Simon, resulting in a flash of white around his wide eyes. Fear was an odd sensation for him, and not one that he was taking kindly to. But with his side still throbbing, and the newest sword injury taking its time to heal, he was in no position to jump back into a fight.

Slinking along the wall, the injured beast moved to lean against the nearest escape, in this case the door. Any approach sent him scampering to the opposite side of the tower, tail tucked and a growl thrown over his shoulder lest the man do more harm. Simon had done the impossible. The lupundra was no longer the alpha.

Simon watched with intense curiosity as the wolf backed away from him. Ears low and lips drawn back, the animal was acting uncharacteristically skittish. When Simon approached it fled, tail tucked between its legs. Simon sighed in relief as it pressed itself against the door. Finally, he thought. The wolf had submitted. Though now he wasn't sure how to proceed. The wolf clearly wanted to be nowhere near him, and Simon wasn't exactly sure he could communicate with it, much less train the beast. For now let him lick his wounds. There will be other new moons. 

The Knight concerned himself with the tower instead. He had found this strange and wondrous shield here, perhaps there was more yet to be found. Simon spent much of the rest of the evening searching the towerhouse for valuables. From top floor to cellar he scoured, finding silver, tools, raw materials, and various other knickknacks. In the cellar he stumbled upon a false wall, and opened it into a small chamber with a strange altar on one side. Upon the altar he found a dagger-shaped crystal pendant, a wicked-looking warhorn, and a faded spellbook. He could make out one incantation and its description. Lead me to my darkest desire… he read. Could it be used to find Raphael? Simon put it in his pack for later, along with the other items. 

Late in the night he gathered his loot on the first floor and sat there watching the defeated werewolf. Suddenly an idea came to him. Picking up the warhorn, he stood up and faced the beast. Putting his lips to it, he trumpeted a short blast to get his attention. "Wolvar!" he called, gesturing toward the wolf. "Come! To me! To me!" he said, gesturing toward himself. He continued like that until dawn, attempting to associate the horn with his name and to teach him that first command. 

At daybreak he climbed back out of the tower the way he came, as much to avoid watching Olvar's painful transition back to human form as to get back to camp. He carried Olvar and their gear out, and was relieved to find Olvar's warg waiting outside. He set his wounded squire on it and trudged back beside them.

Steelshanks eyed them up and down when they arrived. "You call that training? Looks like you damn near killed the lad." 

"Bleed in training, so you don't bleed in the field. Besides, he got his in as well." Simon winced, favoring his shield arm. Breaking down their tent and packing up one-armed was extremely difficult, but in the end he managed to do it. Almost as soon as he jumped onto their wagon he was asleep, so exhausted was he from the night before. Luckily his driver had the grace to let him rest. New moons were always rough with Olvar, but it was going to take a while to recover from this one. 

The wolf watched with clear suspicion as Simon moved about the tower, looting through any chest or box he found amongst the dust. When the man moved upstairs, the lupundra turned his attention to potential escape. He tested the door again, but with an open wound on his side, he could do little more than scratch at his with his claws. It held fast, but a shadow appeared at the thin gap beneath it, followed by the snuffling of a big nose. He bent to sniff back. A warg, somehow familiar, though he couldn’t place how. The creature outside whined, and there was the sound of a bulky body settling onto the ground.

Footsteps descending the stairs stole his attention again, and he turned from the door with a growl to put himself opposite the staircase. As Simon continued down into the cellar, the wolf stepped forward to peer curiously into the darkness, until the knight started out of the cold chamber and back to the main floor anyway. At that point he once again retreated with a warning growl, sitting with his back to the stone wall as he and the noble watched each other.

After what felt like an eternity of sitting and staring, the man stood once more, and flattened ears twitched nervously. The beast watched with narrowed eyes as Simon pulled out what looked like some sort of horn, then blew a sharp note. Sharp ears cupped forward curiously, then threatened to fall back again at the call. A small growl was his response to the gesture in his direction. He remained fixed to his spot, enduring the noise the knight seemed intent on creating.

When dawn grew near the wolf’s head turned suddenly to the east, as if even through the stone walls he could sense the light on the horizon. He was only half interested as Simon climbed out of the tower, more preoccupied with the change he knew was coming. Once alone, the lupundra left the wall with a growl, pacing unhappily back and forth until the instant the sun peeked at the blooming sky.

The reaction was immediate. A long whine, and the beast’s pace faltered. The transformation from wolf to human was equally painful to the opposite shift, the open wound on his side only aggravating it further. The injury smeared more blood onto the cold floor, and accompanied with the gashes his claws made during his writhing, made for a rather macabre scene. Where before a scream had become a howl, a howl now became a scream.

Olvar lay still for several minutes, breathing heavily and oozing blood from the puncture beneath his ribcage. His head was pounding in time with the throbbing wound, and it took him some time to regain his composure before he was able to sit up and glance about the room. They had made one hell of a mess. Hazel eyes swept the room for his gear, and while his armor was far too much for him to bear right now, he was able to drag himself over to pull on his trousers and tunic. He reached for one of his blades out of habit, but the steel weighed his hand to the floor.

Giving up on the fruitless venture, he instead allowed himself to collapse back in exhaustion. The shifter called weakly to Simon to inform him that the change was over, but he wasn’t sure if his mentor heard him or not before he faded out.

When next his eyes opened, he felt course fur beneath him, and a gentle rock from side to side. It took him a few seconds to recognize the warg beneath him. He scratched weakly at the beast’s shoulder, then closed his eyes again.

The young man didn’t wake again until the had made it back to the caravan. His weary gaze found first a wooden wall in front of him, and his brow furrowed. Other senses provided the sounds of idle chatter, the creaking of wheels, the smell of horse. Simon had gotten them back after all. Olvar shifted an arm beneath him in an attempt to sit up, but instantly bit back a cry of pain. Only then did the throbbing in his side resume, as if it had been resting along with him. Ginger fingers pulled his tunic out of the way, and he winced at the wound. Someone had wrapped it, but the bandaging had been bled through enough to see precisely where the puncture had occured. “What madness did I do last night?” he questioned quietly. Even the palms of his hands were somewhat tender, as if he’d gotten too close to a fire.

Searching behind the wagon revealed only more caravan, and his warg following alongside. “Ojuk,” he called softly, and the beast perked up. Where the name came from he hadn’t the foggiest idea, but it seemed to belong to his newly-acquired mount. “Ojuk,” he mumbled again, then strained to look over his shoulder. He could only just see a familiar figure, slumped beside the driver and sleeping hard. Simon must be truly exhausted to sleep while on the move. It would be rude to disturb him, but Olvar had to know what had happened to get him injured so badly–in a way that only silver could manage.

“Simon,” he called, still too sore to get up and wake the man himself. “Simon, get up!” The driver noticed his stubborn intent, and roused the knight with a wrinkled hand on his shoulder. He pointed back to the squire, then returned to his task of keeping the horses in proper step. Once the shifter had gotten his mentor’s attention, he lowered his voice to keep unwanted ears from eavesdropping. “What happened last night? Why am I burned and injured like this?” he asked, indicating the puncture wound, and the redness on his palms.

Dark visions troubled Simon's rest. He dreamed that he was back at the Chateau, sitting the high seat in the great hall. Fires crackled in the hearths while laughter and song echoed off the rafters above as the merry feast proceeded below him. Smiling, Simon lifted a cup of wine to his lips, and glanced over to where his lady wife Serene sat beside him. The fair Atavian woman gave him an angelic smile, squeezing his thigh. All around him on the dais sat his family: his elder brother Perez and his wife Maria with her dark, smiling eyes. His stout cousin Ser Edgar, and his three children all talking and laughing as they shared in the meal. On the tables below he noticed the great men he'd had the pleasure of serving with throughout the years: windblown Captain Nemah, the sarcastic Limon, and the manful Ser Ryger among them. Each smiled and lifted a tankard in salute as he caught their eyes. In that moment Simon felt truly happy. 

Lightning flashed in the window, rumbling thunder following close behind. Ignoring the storm outside, Simon leaned over to kiss his wife. His eyes flicked open in surprise as he tasted her cold, corpsey lips. Horror turned his stomach as he beheld her sitting there stiff and pale, dead eyes staring out into the distance. He cried for help, and when he went to push off from the table he looked down to find his plate filled with moldy bread crawling with worms. Suddenly he noticed how quiet the hall had become. As he looked about he found corpses staring back at him. Their jaws hung slack, grey-green flesh sloughing off the bone. Their pale dead eyes looked up at him accusingly. You did this.

He looked toward his children. Freya and Raphael were nowhere to be found. Perez, his eldest, looked hale, but he stared unflinchingly at the foot of the hall. Simon followed his eyes just in time to witness the door fly open. An icy draft prickled his skin as a dark hooded figure crossed the threshold. Simon's stomach dropped. Moghedrin. He reached for his sword, but all the strength fled from him then. He could not even draw the blade from his scabbard. 

The distraught father looked on helplessly as the necromancer made a 'come hither' motion with his hand, and Perez slowly rosed and walked down the center of the hall. Tears filled his eyes and the necromancer cackled, turning to leave with a hand on his son's shoulder. A wolf howled outside as Simon fell to his knees. Tilting his head back, he let out a cry of anguish. All had been lost.

The cry turned to a yelp of pain as Simon was jarred from his slumber. The driver had shaken his hurt shoulder, making Simon wince and recoil as hot tendrils ran down his arm. For a moment Simon sat wide-eyed and gasping, not knowing where he was. Eventually realization dawned on him, and the dread of his nightmare slowly began to fade. He looked back at his wounded squire, not knowing whether to thank him for saving Simon from his nightmare or to cuff him for causing him so much pain. Every pebble the wagon went over sent a spike of agony through his shoulder. "What do you want, Olvar?"

Simon sighed at the question. "I decided to tame the beast. We fought nearly to the death. In the end I had to use silver to subdue you. That is why you are burned so." He winced as the wagon went over another bump. "In the end the wolf submitted, and cowered before me. I believe I was able to assert dominance over your wolf form, as you have asserted dominance over your warg. I found a queer warhorn in the tower, and when I blew it you seemed to respond. I believe the beast you become can be trained, used for good. We will find out on the next new moon. Until then, we must rest and heal. You never know when the next bandit attack will strike. Drink plenty of water, sleep, and disturb me no more. My shoulder is killing me. I need time to heal."

With that, Simon turned back ahead. With his good hand he uncorked a wineskin and quaffed eagerly, as much to drown the memory of his dream as to dull the pain. Eventually, after the skin was emptied, sleep came again. This time he was blessed to have no dreams.