Are we there yet?

Simon never spoke the words aloud, he had spent too much of his life trekking through the wilderness for that, but the thought plagued him as the wagon train wound its way under towering grey-green sentinels and gloomy soldier pines. Are we near? he would wonder, as they pushed the wagons up a stony slope, or plowed through drifts of dirty snow. How much farther? he thought as they splashed across an icy stream. How much longer? It's so cold… he lamented as snowflakes fell wet and heavy around them. Where is this village?

The Knight ducked down as the wagon passed under the low limb of an oak. Simon glanced over at the driver. The old man's teeth chattered under a beard gleaming with frost, his gloved hands trembling at the reigns. Montefort knew he must look similar, the scarf wound around his neck and jaw layered in cracked frost. It was cold here in the highlands, the wind whipping through any breaks in the trees, the sun indiscernible behind a white leaden sky. It would have been one thing had he been walking, but sitting in the wagon there was no escape from the bone-deep chill. It made Simon happy for the many times a wagon would catch a deadfall or get stuck in a ditch hidden by snow. They would get out and dislodge the wheels with stakes and ropes, and by the time the wagon was free Simon would be warm and puffing. But when he jumped back into the wagon and the column was back underway soon the sweat would freeze upon his brow, and he'd be even colder than before. Much more of this and I'll catch a chill.

Steelshanks swore there was a village close at hand, but their agonizingly slow pace made it seem long leagues away. Eventually they crested a hill and came upon a long lake crusted in ice and snow. "We're almost there," the Serjeant declared, "we just need to follow the bank to the far side."

That was easier said than done. At first they simply followed the tree line, but there were wooded isles in the lake that confused their path. Furthermore, there were breaks along the shore with no trees to be found, indistinguishable from the flat lake alongside it. Their pace slowed further as they picked their way warily along the lakeside. In the end they nearly rode right through the village, its huts so covered in snow that they looked like nothing more than a cluster of large drifts. It was the longhall that gave it away: long and with a pointed roof, it was too misshapen to be a natural snow drift. The hair stood up on Simon's neck when Steelshanks called a halt. "I mislike this," he called to their leader, "I see no smoke from the hovels, and no tracks in the snow."  

Nodding grimly, Steelshanks dispatched the guardsmen to fan out and search the village. "Watch my back," the Count told his squire Olvar as he jumped off the wagon into the knee-deep snow. Loosening his blade in its scabbard, he trudged to the nearest mount and brushed aside snow until he found the door. His boot sent it flying inward, and the Knight stood somewhat aside to let the light in while his eyes adjusted to the dimness inside. 

"Look," he said to Olvar, pointing within. Things were scattered everywhere. "This place is torn apart. Everything of value is gone."

"They were raided," Steelshanks sighed from behind them. Simon nodded. "Undoubtedly. What is in doubt is whether they're all dead. It's unlikely that they completely slaughtered a village this size. They would have carried off women to warm their beds, and taken other thralls to carry the stolen goods. Such folk wouldn't have been able to travel far. They're likely wintering nearby."

Simon looked back into the hovel. "Olvar, see if you can find something with a good scent in there, a scrap of women's clothing maybe. Perhaps your warg could track it." 

He looked back to find Steelshanks eyeing him incredulously. "You would track these raiders down? You'd risk exposing us and getting us all killed."

The White Knight met the Serjeant's gaze sternly. "We have a duty to save those poor people, or to avenge them if not. Besides, our wagon train is slow, noisy, and exposed. They're nearby, and their scouts will sight us soon enough. We'll stand a better chance taking them unawares than letting them fall on us. I don't know about you, but I've had a bellyfull of surprise attacks on this journey. Let us turn the tables for once."

The tall, grizzled vet thought a moment, then finally nodded. "You're right. Let's take the fight to these bastards before they have a chance to take the fight to us. We'll get the wagons circled up around the longhall, and get the merchants and horses settled inside. Olvar, you work on getting that warg a scent. I'll send out some scouts to see if they can find tracks. Once we've set up a good defensive position here we'll strike out with the guardsmen. We'll find their lair, and strike while they sleep. There isn't another village around for miles, they won't expect anyone to come looking for them so soon. They be drinking and celebrating their victory while we creep up on them. They'll be totally unaware."

As everyone rushed to set in motion their plan worry gnawed at Simon. Tonight was to be the next new moon, the fourth since the fateful night where he had cowed Olvar's wolf form. He had come a long way since then in training the werewolf to respond to the horn and to basic commands, but he wasn't sure it could yet be trusted in battle. Now, however, it seemed they had little choice. "Olvar," he said in a low voice, "we're going to have to tell Steelshanks about your… gift." And pray he doesn't try to cut your throat.

The air was bitterly sharp, biting at Olvar’s face and numbing his ears and cheeks. His body rocked lightly as he rode his beastly mount, fingers kept warm only by hiding in the depths of Ojuk’s fur. He had endured his fair share of hard winters, especially earlier in life, but the cold here almost seemed more pressing than the harsh chill he was accustomed to, more deliberate. More than once he took a moment to rub warmth back into his legs and arms, fighting back the frigid grasp of the frozen forest looming around their caravan. With every assurance that there was indeed a village nearby, Olvar grew a smidge more skeptical, and a tad more irritated.

Finally a landmark revealed itself from the monotony of trees. Though faint, the stretched outline of a lakeshore could be made out from the white blanket thrown before them. “About time,” he grumbled to himself, then glanced to Simon. His mentor looked half frozen. At least Olvar had the shifting movement of riding to keep him from gathering frost.

As they loosely traced the coast, Ojuk’s wide paws kept them more or less at the top of the snow, sinking down only a few inches even with the added weight of a rider. It made the trek easier for them, but no less of a challenge for the caravan. Wagons were not meant to plow through powder and ice, and the dragging pace was making Olvar impatient. Still, his time with Simon had taught him control, and it was shown when he chose to remain at the side of his designated wagon.

When at last they reached their destination, there was hardly anything to call a village. The buildings were so mounded with snow that they were effectively camouflaged from detection by a fleeting glance. If not for their slow pace, they surely would have missed it. An eerie chill hung in the air, one not made from physical cold. It brought a furrow to the lycan’s brow, and his eyes slid suspiciously along the mounds. No scents, human or animal; no prints in the snow; no sounds of movement. He dismounted, stepping up to his mentor’s side with a hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Olvar gave a nod at the order, following not far behind as the knight approached one of the mounds to investigate.

As he peered inside the excavated room, he heard Steelshanks approach from behind. The shifter stepped inside, nodding again at the order. The place had been quiet for some time judging by the collection of powder over the room. The stiff floorboards creaked underfoot to protest the intrusion, but it was the Sergeant who gave him pause in his search for a trail. Rare were the occasions when Simon and Steelshanks butted heads, but when it happened Olvar always made sure to watch. Neither man was the sort to brawl a respected comrade, at least not with fists. The two often ended up battling with logic and wit instead, which the lycan had come to enjoy almost as much as a good fight.

In this case, Simon emerged victorious. Upon repeating the knight’s initial order, Olvar gave the Sergeant a look before going back to the task Simon had given him. On the road to changed he may be, but the guardsman had certainly not taken authority over him as his mentor had. To assume he would follow any command not directly from the White Knight himself was amusing at best.

Snow crunched under each step as he advanced into the building, rightening furniture to clear a path ahead of him. Those raiders really had made a mess of this place. At the back of the room, near the building’s center, was a frozen hearth, dark now for who could say how long. Near its mouth was a small mound, and the lycan crouched to examine it more closely. Brushing aside the settled white blanket, the squire was pleased to find a single shoe. No doubt it belonged to someone now suffering from a nasty case of frostbite. Prize in hand, he stood, nearly colliding with Simon as he turned.

The success of his find withered instantly at the knight’s words. “Are you mad?” he inquired, barely keeping his tone subdued. For the entirety of the trip they had managed to keep what he was under their hats, and now, when tensions were highest, Simon wanted to reveal him? “He’ll have a knife in me before you even finish speaking.”

He stepped past the knight, aware of his disrespect in doing so, but Simon wasn’t thinking clearly. … Or was he? Every time Olvar doubted his mentor, there was always some information he wasn’t aware of at the time. And more than once it had gotten them out of a tough situation. Jaw tight, he stopped in the doorway, turning back with a frown. “Why?” After a moment to ponder, he spoke again. “I don’t like where you’re going with this, but if you think it has to happen… so be it. I’ll show this to Ojuk. Get us our trail,” he added, holding the shoe for Simon to see.

The lycan exited the snowed in home, eyeing Steelshanks across the road before returning to his warg. Once the scouts returned and the village was decently fortified, the guardsmen would rally together under their commander. With Ojuk following the trail from the shoe, they would certainly find the raiders’ camp. One way or another. Until that moment though, Olvar’s focus would be on Simon. The knight was going to expose his secret; he wanted to be aware when it happened.

The dank cell was small - the ceiling too low to stand up straight, the walls too close to stretch out fully on the hard packed dirt. The discomforting conditions made it difficult for the young nobleman to find rest, and the reprieve it would bring from the sobs leaking through the walls from the next cell over. 

Raphael Ballestrino de Montefort e Tresceau slapped his hands against his ears, trying in vain to mute the girl's cries. He shut his eyes against the darkness, squeezing out tears he didn't realize he still had left to shed. Canelux was an accursed land, Raphael decided; a land of tyrants and criminals totally devoid of heroes, its cruelty only surpassed by its depravity. Minya Amar had been a hard land, but there had been heroes like Rognar and his father to stand against the darkness. Here there was no light to be found at all.

The Atavian thought back on how he had come to these shores. He had been born in the sun-washed northern reaches of the Kingdom of Mooncrest, amongst the rolling orchards and vineyards of Montefort. His father was the famous Count Simon of Montefort, who had spearheaded the King's Highland Campaign and the infamous Invasion of Minoc, and his mother was the Marchioness Serene d'Tresceau. After the vile necromancer Moghedrin assassinated his mother and stole away with his elder brother Perez, Raphael had become the heir to the combined Duchy of Montefort and Tresceau. It was one of the grandest positions in the new Empire, and his father had determined to ensure that he would be ready for it.

His training had began at the age of six, when he became his father's page and cupbearer. Raphael followed him everywhere - standing by him in court and council and watching him practice with his men out in the yard. He learned the basics of boxing, wrestling, swordplay, riding, swimming, climbing, etiquette, letters, and sums. After three years he was sent into the mountains north of Tresceau, where his mother had settled her people after a volcanic eruption had destroyed the Atavian's island home. There he'd become page to the Atavian Archon - learning the tongue and customs of his mother's people. There he'd learned how to use his wings to soar the skies, to use the whip and bola and the lasso, how to shoot the bow and play the high harp and sing and write poetry and how to dive bomb his foes. To this day Raphael looked back on those days as the freest and most joyous of his life. With the Atavians he had felt most at home.

After three years amongst his people Raphael was shipped far to the north of Minya Amar, into the western Highlands where the great Orc warrior Rognar presided as high Chieftan of the Orcish Kingdom. The brutal fighter had been an old comrade of his father, and at the age of twelve he was squired to Rognar to help solidify the alliance between the two Kingdoms. Raphael had not wanted to go to that harsh, alien land, but his father would hear none of his protests. In the orcish lands were a harsh place where strength ruled supreme: Raphael's breeding meant nothing there. All they cared about was how well you could fight and hunt. Slender as he was with an Atavian's hollow bones, he was beaten senseless by muscle-bound brutes time and time again and suffered multiple breaks as a result. As savage as those lands were over time Raphael learned much. He learned to stand up straight and look a man in the eye, to stand his ground even if it meant great suffering. He learned to channel his rage into fighting, how to fight with axe and club, the basics of runic magicks, and how to hunt and gather and navigate in the harsh environs of the highlands. At the age of fifteen he killed his first man, and was made a full member of the Waraxe tribe.

Afterward he was sent back to Montefort, to serve as cabin boy to Admiral Nemah of his father's naval fleet. For a year he worked like a commoner, tarring and cleaning the ship while learning the ropes. He also learned how to use the map and compass and stellar constellations for navigation, how to read the winds and currents, and how to swim and dive and anticipate storms. Not two weeks after his sixteenth nameday his father announced that they would be spearheading the King's latest campaign to retake the Isles and the MoonCrest Mines. The great MoonCrest Volcano had ceased erupting for the first time in generations, meaning the constant ashfalls that left the islands uninhabitable would now have rich soil which could be developed to grow the lucrative cash crops that only thrived in tropical environs. The fleet was loaded with soldiers and provisions, they bid their farewells to their loved ones, dropped sail and set out to their doom.

As they plied north through the choppy grey waters of the western sea a great storm suddenly came upon them - a gale unlike anything even Captain Nemah had seen before. Lightning arced across a furious sky of purple clouds. Winds and rogue waves whipped from every direction: tearing their rigging to pieces as the ship lurched and rolled under them. The last thing Raphael remembered was a great thunderbolt striking the center mast - turning his entire world a blinding white.

The next things he knew he awoke on a rocky shore. As he opened his eyes to the sun's blinding light he thought for an instant that he was still on the deck of the Chivalry, watching the mast go up in flame. As he came to his senses he wondered if he had made it to the Isles, and if anyone else had as well. As he feebly wandered the shore he found himself face to face with a group of massive four-armed primitives, who soon had him bound in chafing hempen ropes and dragged him away from the shore and from any hope of seeing his friends and family ever again. He could not understand their tongue, nor they his, and so he was forced to walk silently through a land of ravines and rope ladders until the reached the edge of a great rolling desert. It seemed to him that he had washed up on the shores of the far northern reaches of Minya Amar, but he could not comprehend how that was possible when they had been sailing in the western sea. Eventually they met a caravan of tall, coal-skinned men wrapped in white silks. After much back and forth, gold exchanged hands and he was given over to them. I've just been sold, Raphael realized with horror. He was a slave. 

Fortunately these men could speak the Common Tongue. Every time Raphael attempted to protest his entanglement or explain who he was he was visciously beaten, but over time he came managed to glean some information from the slavers as they traversed the dunes. They had never heard of Montefort, or MoonCrest, of for that matter Minya Amar or even the world of Dae Luin. This was the great desert Harena of northern Canelux, in the world of Revaliir. Could that storm have been magical? Raphael wondered. It certainly had been strange enough. Could it have ripped open a gateway to another world? If so, then he was truly alone. Perhaps he was doomed to be a slave.

At least he would be an expensive slave, he could tell from his slaver's excitement as they discussed them. Apparently elves fetched a high price: a well-educated winged elf would be worth a small fortune. Over the course of weeks they worked their way southeast, the ground eventually becoming hilly and shrubby, rising into great wooded mountains. At the foot of the Antiga range they came upon a group of men not unlike the highlanders of Minya Amar: bearded, skirted, bearing axes and riding shaggy palfreys. They had a harshness of tongue and eye that told Raphael that they were men of ill repute. Their captain, a man named the Hull, grinned when he saw Raphael, flashing a set of rotted yellow teeth. "What a beauty. I've always wanted a hawk like them high Lords o' the South. This'n would put theirs all t'shame." I'll be no hawk of yours, Raphael thought imputently.

More back and forth, more clinking of gold… and now he was climbing into the mountains with this band of rugged men. Luckily these men seemed to be amateurs compared to the desert slavers: Raphael saw many chances to escape under their care, and he took each of them. Unfortunately, he was caught and put back into bondage each and every time. Each time they whipped him, until lash scars crisscrossed his back. The Hull also tried to turn him into his personal hawk - ordering him to scout and hunt and sing for his pleasure. Every time he refused, and every time he was beaten savagely as a result. Once he pretended to break down and do his master's bidding, only to fly off until his bonds were removed. Unfortunately he was weak and did not know the land, and once he stopped to rest they quickly came upon him. That beating had been the worst of all, and had broken several ribs as a result. He'd had to sleep sitting against a tree for weeks afterward. After that they started to deprive him of food, then sleep, and finally water in an attempt to break him.

And break him they did. Raphael realized he did not have the strength of his father, who would have surely died rather than live as a slave. Raphael simply wanted to live, even if that meant living with the shame of his cowardice. He began to follow the Hull's orders, though now he was paired with a gangly redheaded boy of an age with him known as Anguy: one of the best sharpshooters Raphael had ever seen. He hardly even had to aim - just pull and release and the arrow would find its mark even at great range. If Raphael flew too far afield Anguy was ordered to shoot him down before he got out of range, and thus was the Hawk leashed to his master. 

At first Raphael resented the constant presence of Anguy by his side, but over time he came to appreciate the lad's company. He lacked the cruelty and harshness of the other bandits - he was simply the son of a huntsman who had died of a pox. With nothing else but poaching as an option, he had thrown in with the bandits as a way to make his fortune and see the world. In battle he would shoot down fighting men but his arrows never found unarmed smallfolk, nor did he partake in the rape and torture that the others so loved, though he did a fine bit of drinking and looting when able. He had many stories of his times adventuring in the highlands, small distractions from his current situation that Raphael was thankful for.

Eventually they came upon an old ringfort high upon a hill with good views in all directions. There was where they would winter, the Hull decided. Raphael spent the waning days of autumn at hard labor with all the rest, renovating the ruined keep and outbuildings and erecting wooden palisades betwixt the massive standing stones that formed the outer perimeter. Once the fortress was complete and the snow began to fall, the Hull decided that they would need to seize women and provisions to see them through the coming months. The target was a nearby village some miles away that Raphael had noted while initially scouting the area upon their arrival. 

The attack was sudden and savage, coming in the dead of night as the village slept. From a nearby hill alongside Anguy Raphael saw the fires and heard the screams of the townspeople. At one point the Hull approached, bloody and grinning, and ordered him to scout the area for any who had managed to escape. If he did not bring back any captives, the Hull threatened to execute five villagers. 

For over an hours Raphael circled the hills surrounding the village, eyes pouring over the snowy slopes glowing with moonlight. Just as he began to fear that he would find no one he noticed a small form darting between the trees below. As he circled lower for a closer look he discerned that it was a child - a little girl no more than eleven or twelve winters old by the look of her. She was rushing away from the horrors of the village as fast as her little legs could take her. Raphael was loathe to bring back a child to the likes of the Hull, but his threats left him torn. If he let the girl go five innocent villagers would die, but perhaps dying would be better than life under the thumb of these brigands. Besides, the child might find the hall of some clan chieftan and bring their fury down on the bandits. Raphael might die, but at least he would see justice done. But just as like the girl would die from exposure or malnutrition, and those villagers would die too in vain. The teen couldn't have that on his conscience. In the end he alerted Anguy to the girl's location and had her picked up. 

Back at the village the Hull was displeased at how few escapees Raphael had found, but was happy with the shivering flaxen-haired little thing he had managed to pick up. "She'll do us well, Hawk," he declared, slapping Raphael on the back so hard that he stumbled. Dawn was breaking by the time they assembled the survivors and stolen goods into a long train, and by midmorning they were making their way back to the ringfort through the falling snow.

Once back at the ringfort the merrymaking had begun. For his performance Raphael was permitted to eat with the bandits, and was even given a flagon of wine. As the feast went on the depravity of the brigands began to show. First the poor, terrified townswomen had been made to sing and dance for the raiders. Now they were being made to strip and do other suggestive things. Raphael excused himself to his chamber then, knowing that soon the raping would begin. The Hull might have crushed his will to resist, but he would not stand around and watch such atrocities be perpetrated first hand. As he walked down a hallway he heard a familiar voice cry out. Hackles rising, he turned a corner to find a cruel brute of a man by the name of MacLeary pressing a young girl up against the wall, hand slipping up beneath her bodice. Her fearful eyes met his, and Raphael recognized her as the girl he'd found running away from the village. 

Something snapped in him then, and he could look the other way no more. "Unhand her!" he screamed, guilt boiling into a rage inside him. With a flap of his wings his feet left the ground and he soared through the air - catching MacLeary clean in the jaw with a flying punch just as he turned to look for the source of the yell. The blow knocked the man clean off his feet, sending his sprawling senseless to the floor. "Come on," Raphael said to the girl, taking her hand and turning up the corridor - right into three more skirted men. They looked from Raphael to MacLeary… and then the beating began.

They tossed him into one of the dark cells underneath the fort, the atavian landing with a thud that made all his bumps and bruises ache a new. Groaning, he rolled over and looked back to see MacLeary standing in the threshold. He held a torch with one hand, and rubbed his jaw with another. "Y'know, little Hawk, I was just going to have her myself. Now I think all four of us will have a go. I know you was jealous so don't worry, we'll make sure ya dun miss a thing."

The door slammed shut, leaving the room in darkness. Footsteps faded away into silence, but it was only a short time later that they returned, this time accompanied by familiar screams. Raphael's stomach dropped. "Time for the real fun!" a harsh voice exclaimed from the next cell over as the girl pleaded with them to stop. "NO!" Raphael screamed, jumping up and rushing for his door. He jiggled the handle, but it was locked against him. He threw his shoulder against it again and again, until it hurt too badly to try anymore. "Please!" he screamed, slapping the wall, "don't do it! I'll do anything! I swear!" 

He was answered only by the laughs of the men, over the crying of the girl. Raphael slid slowly to the dirt, tears streaming down his face as each of them had a go at her in turn. The ordeal seemed to last for hours, though he was sure to her it seemed even longer. Both cried the entire time. She continued to cry long after they finished and left her, long after his own tears had run dry. Now Raphael lay on the cold floor, hands pressed against his ears in a vain attempt to shut out the constant reminder of his failure. It was all his fault: the village, her capture, the men… all of it. What would his father think of him, to see what he had done? Even that beast of a commoner he had taken to squire had more chivalry in him than Raphael. He was no good man. He wasn't even a man at all. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered to the wall, "I'm so sorry…"

While the caravan dug in at the village Simon set off with Olvar and a group of handpicked scouts hot on Ojuk's heels. The large warg had no problem ascertaining the scent, and soon they were on their way up the hill country. Perhaps the lad was not so remiss to take this beast as his mount. Simon reflected as he trudged through the knee-deep snow. With each step more of it packed into the chinks in his armor with a crunch, eventually melting into his gambeson and sending chills up his legs. The White Knight shivered as they pushed on, hoping to make the most of the daylight they had left to them. 

Mist poured from his visor with every labored breath as they continued to climb. He knew from his prior campaigns in the Highlands that soon enough that mist would frost his visor shut. With any luck, they would be upon their quarry far before that. Suddenly one of his scouts called for them to stop. "You hear that?" Ralf Stonesnake asked. He was a wiry, grizzled old wilderness man who'd been with Steelshanks for years. Despite his age, he had the ears and eyes of a fox. Motioning for the others to stay behind, he quietly moved up and clambered over a rocky outcropping in the hills, illustrating for all how he had attained his nickname.

It seemed that Simon stood there for a lifetime, shivering in the snow, before finally Stonesnake made his descent and rejoined them. "There's a patrol over yonder, in the draw beyond the ridge. A dozen men in total, spears and archers in two groups about fifty yards apart." Simon nodded, pondering the terrain and the disposition of their forces. "Olvar, take Ojuk and two scouts. Circle around the ridge and catch the first group as they come out of the draw. I'll take Stonesnake and the other two and go over the ridge to fall upon the rearguard. Make sure to capture one alive, he must needs be questioned afterward. Move out."

With that, Simon dropped his visor and motioned for Stonesnake to lead on. He clambered up the frozen rocks behind the old man, slowed substantially by his gear and armor. Behind him followed the two younger scouts, much more nimble in their leathers. Once or twice he nearly lost his footing or a handhold, but through luck and force of will he managed to make the summit. There he dropped down beside Stonesnake to survey the draw that dropped down below them. Down inside he sighted a group of four spearmen and two archers dead ahead. He commanded everyone to hold. They would make their move once they heard Olvar make his assault. Knowing the lad, it should be plenty loud enough for us to hearken of it.

While the others trudged through a snow, Olvar sat perched upon Ojuk’s back, using his position to keep a keen eye out while his mount led the way along the forged trail. Scouts fanned to either side of the beast as he snuffled through the snow, following the panicked path of a child. Likely fleeing on her own if the random changes in direction were anything to go by. Every few steps, a huff of hot breath blew the powder from around the warg’s nose. In the soft snowfall, even wide paws sank through the surface. The knight in training was glad to save his strength for battling men rather than the terrain, carried instead on his mount’s steady strides. Rocks were obscured by blankets of frost, but the trail more or less weaved around them.

At the call to halt, Olvar reined back his canine companion, gaze fixing on Stonesnake. The old man was deceptively nimble, and keen to his surroundings at all times. In a way, he reminded the lycan of a hare, or perhaps a weasel. All subtle grace, but not much to look at. Still, he had his skills. Upon stopping to listen more closely, Ojuk’s ears swiveled forward. Olvar could hear it too: mutterings on the wind, or perhaps it was the dull clink of distant metal. He watched as Stonesnake crept over the rock walls, fidgeting in the saddle after only a minute of waiting. He flexed his stiff fingers, stretched his neck; any little movements that might help keep him warm. After two minutes, he glanced back at Simon. Should they even bother waiting for the old man?

As the thought crossed his mind, Stonesnake crept back into view, descending the rocks and retelling what he’d discovered ahead of them. His training sent his mind into a buzz of activity, ideas forming and being discarded with every new piece of information. Simon had the lead here, but the practice of strategizing was never a waste.

Sure enough, the chosen plan was a variation of one he’d considered, but more refined, likely by past experience he had yet to gain. The shifter nodded, eager to rush into the first real action in over a week. At the drop of “Move out”, Olvar reined Ojuk back to adjust their course, then hurried off with two scouts trailing after him.

He followed along the curve of the land until they reached the ridge that Stonesnake had mentioned. There he paused, eyeing the half dozen men below while the two footmen caught up to him. “Each of you take one of the archers first. We keep one alive,” he instructed in a low voice. With the reputations he and Simon had been building, both scouts agreed readily to his plan. “On my mark.” He gripped Ojuk’s saddle a little tighter, excitement thrilling through his veins. “Take them.”

Two arrows let loose, each one finding their marks. As two archers buckled to the frozen ground, Ojuk stepped onto the precipice of the ridge, baring monstrous teeth at the men below. A light kick from Olvar and the beast descended the slope of the ridge with ease, bellowing out a ghastly roar and barrelling forward. The warg collided hard with the remaining archer, sending the man down into a cloud of powder. Before the impact, Olvar swung out of the saddle, drawing his blades on his way to the ground. He landed relatively smoothly, immediately throwing a combination of strikes at the nearest spearman. It was enough to get past the range of his weapon. The killing blow was easy.

The surprise attack had been enough to upheave the patrol’s steady demeanor, and the remaining two men were quickly dispatched; one with a scout’s arrow and the other by Olvar’s seax knife. The final man, as Simon wanted, was left alive, though his panicky blubbering made Olvar want to fix that. Then again, he couldn’t really blame the poor sap. He was no doubt sporting several broken bones, and was currently being carried in the jaws of a massive warg.

With his head held high, the lycan climbed once more into the saddle, rejoined by the scouts he’d ordered. His attention had gone to the other portion of the patrol claimed in the second attack led by Simon, or what might remain of them anyway. He plowed through a drift of snow to make a path for the footmen following after him, then headed back to rejoin his mentor. “Got one like you wanted,” he called, Ojuk gripping their captive tightly in his jaws.

As Simon suspected, it did not take long for his young Squire to start the fray. He heard scream and snarling, followed by a great crash. Shock and awe, classic Olvar. Effective, if unrefined.Simon's approach would be similar yet somewhat obverse. As the startled rearguard looked down the draw toward their allies the Knight slid down the rocks into the draw below. His descent was hard to control, and he landed so hard in the snow that he went to his knees. Simon had to use his shield to lever himself out of the white powder that covered him to the waist. As he stood, he held his morningstar up before him and began to trudge toward the group with a righteous cry of "MONTEFORT!"

The bandits looked back at him in surprise. To their credit, they reacted quite quickly and in a tactically sound manner. Both archers hopped up onto a small hill, with the spearmen before them at its base in a semicircle. It was a good formation, and more than enough to dispatch a single Knight on foot slowed by the knee-deep snow. Simon lifted his shield before him, smiling grimly as two arrows thunked into the enchanted device. They're so distracted by my mummer's farce of an assault that they've failed to notice the three scouts up on the ridge behind me. Simon waved his morningstar in the air and cried out once more, but this time he screamed "LOOSE!" 

A spearman and an archer were down before they even realized what had happened. The remaining archer was already sending another shaft toward Simon and thus was too slow to react with any covering fire, leaving the spearmen exposed. The Knight lifted his shield against the arrow and felt the shield thud against his arm on impact, Lowering the shield, he peered through the narrow slit of his visor toward the huddled spearmen before him. Mist blew out his visor with a hollow ring with every labored breath. By the time he made it to the spearmen another had fallen, an arrow sprouting from between neck and collarbone. A well placed shot. Stonesnake's work, I'd wager. The archer was now loosing back toward his scouts on the ridge. Simon was free to engage.

With a shout Simon put on a burst of speed, feinting right then at the last instant spinning over his right shoulder toward his left. As the rightmost spearmen stepped back from his feinted assault the leftmost stepped in with a thrust - the spearhead missing wide behind his back as Simon spun past. As deft as the maneuver was, the heavy snow slowed his movement. The spearhead scratched his backplate as it went by, and instead of his spinning counter blow striking the man's right shoulder it took him about a foot short on the elbow. Nonetheless, the man doubled over with a cry, allowing Simon to crack him in the top of the head with the edge of his shield and kick him back into his ally. As the remaining spearman pushed his fallen brother aside Simon was already on him, turning the point of his spear away with his shield and bringing his morningstar down in a long arc that smashed through the top of his head. The man fell twitching in a pool of brains and blood, but Simon took no time to survey his grim handiwork. His shield was already raised before him, his eyes peering up the hill. All was the silent. 

"I got him!" Stonesnake called from up and behind him. Simon nodded with approval. "Lemmy's down!" came the next shot. With a curse, Simon turned and signaled for Olvar to join him, then began clambering back up the ridge. Huffing and puffing, he found Stonesnake kneeling over a moaning scout, an arrow bristling from his lower stomach. "I told them to shoot from one knee, m'lord, but the stubborn fool stood up to get a better shot." Stonesnake opined as he approached. Simon tsked as he knelt down beside the wizened scout. "Always listen to your Captain. He's Captain for good reason. Brace yourself. This shan't be comfortable." Grasping the shaft, he pulled hard. The lad screamed as the arrow tore loose in a spray of pus and black blood. "You ripped him apart!" Stonesnake exclaimed.

"I know." It was not the proper way to remove an arrow, but Simon was not utilizing mundane medicine. Laying hands on the wound, he began to whisper in the old romantic tongue of Montefort. A suffused white glow showed from underneath his hands, and when the whispering was done and his hands lifted off the scout, the wound was gone. "Gods be good, that was amazing. T-thank you, m'lord." gasped the young scout. Simon shook his head grimly. "Do not praise me yet, boy. My arts have mended the organs, closed the wound, and staunched the flow of blood. But bile and foul humors have seeped from your intestines into the surrounding flesh. You will continue to be weak and in great pain for some time, if you are fortunate. If you are not, you will develop a fever, and die. You are in the hands of the Gods now, son." Simon clasped the shoulder of the visibly sobered scout, and turned to Olvar and the rest of them.

"Well done my boys, that was well executed. We defeated a force twice our strength through tactical discipline and resolve. If we continue in this manner, we should have no issue doing the same to their main force, wherever that may lie. Olvar, you managed to capture one, yes? Bring him before me." The captured bandit was thrown to his knees before him, crying out in pain before blubbering on about his wounds in a shameful display of cowardice. Simon looked upon him with an air of disgust only a nobleman could must, before drawing up his hand and backhanding him across the face with a mailed fist. "Regain your senses, fool. Your very life depends upon it. Now tell me where your main camp lies, and I shall lay my hands upon you and your wounds shall be healed."

The bandit soon wizened. "Y-yes ser, m'lord. We found an old abandoned ringfort on a steep hill 'bout six miles back up the draw and to the northwest. That's where we's holed up. Now will you heal me? It hurts, m'lord, it hurts bad…" 

Simon nodded. "First I will go to this fort and ascertain the truth. Once I am certain you have not paid me in false coin, I shall return and heal you. Take him away. Olvar, Stonesnake, with me." He stepped out of earshot of the captive and the others, thinking hard. Night will fall not long after we find the fort, and then Olvar will turn… A plan began to form. Turning, he huddled up with the two heroes and addressed them with a lowered voice. "Olvar and I shall strike out ahead and gain entry to the fort." 

"But m'lord, that's suicide!" Stonesnake exclaimed.

"Shhh. Not likely. The bandits will not feel threatened by a lone Knight and his Squire. They may think me a Hedge Knight, or worse, some Robber Knight with a mind to join them. They will likely allow me before their leader. Besides, you will soon be there to save me. You'll return the prisoner and Lemmy to Steelshanks and report of all you've seen and heard here. Tell him to assemble the men and be ready to attack the fort at nightfall. You and eleven other men shall don the clothing and weapons of the men we've slain here. Come ahead of the main force and approach the gate at dusk as if returning from patrol. Try to approach from the direction of the setting sun, if you can. In the fading light they shall not recognize you and will likely open the gate for you. Once in you shall turn on them and seize it to allow the main force ease of entry. When we hear the commotion outside Olvar and I shall strike at their leader and cause a commotion in their main hall, adding to the confusion. If timed properly and done right, we can achieve a quick victory with little loss of our own blood."

The grizzled old scout nodded, smiling as understanding dawned in his eyes. "It shall be done, m'lord." 

Simon nodded in approval. "Excellent. Now get moving. There is no time to lose." As Steelshanks went about his business with the scouts, Simon clasped Olvar on the shoulder. "You did well today," he said, in a proud fatherly tone. "You commaded your men well, implemented sound small mixed-unit tactics, and dispatched your foes quickly and effectively with no losses. You are no longer a common thug, you are a warrior. A commander of men. You fight well, and along with your reading and your sums your training is almost complete. You have only to master ettiquette and the ways of chivalry before you are ready to be a Knight." 

The Count's expression sobered. "There is one more thing you must master. Your wolf side. We have worked on it for some time, but tonight will be the final test. I mean to unleash you in the bandit chieftan's hall, to slaughter he and his men. But you must not threaten their helpless prisoners, nor Steelshanks men coming to help us. I have the horn with me, but I want you to exercise the control yourself. I will not always be there to direct you while in your bestial form. You must learn to maintain the man within while you are a beast without." I hope you can manage it, lad, elsewise Steelshanks will have your head. But he left that unsaid. Unsettling the boy would only lessen his chances of success. 

Simon turned to survey their surroundings, oddly serene after the hectic moments of bloodshed before. The day was nearing its end. It was time to move. With a deep breath of frigid air, he turned back to Olvar. "Well, houndsman, let us get a move. Have Ojuk regain the trail, and move out."

The sharp tang of blood drifted through the air like a fog, blooming up from the wounded archer. Both Olvar and his mount were keenly aware, but the lycan kept his expression decidedly neutral as Simon worked on the poor sap. Though often brutal at first, his mentor had proven his worth as an effective healer in times past as well. Even the most drastic of injuries were sealed up as if they had never even happened. At least on the outside. As the knight informed the lad, his battle wasn’t over yet. His insides had been exposed to rot. He could almost smell the infection already.

It hardly mattered in the end anyway. The bandits’ camp was the target, and whether or not the entire party of scouts made it there was barely a concern in his mind. The end goal mattered, not the steps required to reach it. He gave Ojuk a nudge, and the captive was spat unceremoniously into the snow at Simon’s feet. Every panicked move left the snow tainted with little red smears and spots. The snivelling man cowered in the icy powder. Olvar caught the regal air about his mentor, noting the practiced scowl of a noble. At one point it may have angered him just to see the smug disdain, regardless of whether or not he was the cause. Now, when he himself was rising toward the ranks of nobility, he found it didn’t bother him quite so much.

The interrogation was easy, the information they wanted spilling from the man as seamlessly as water from a cracked pot. Olvar dismounted, his warg following at his back as he stepped off to one side with Simon and Stonesnake. It was always the “final stands” that ended up being the real battles, the lycan’s favorites. And his mentor certainly had no shortage of ideas on how to get the job done. Just hearing this one laid out was enough to send a thrill bouncing through his gut, but dread lurked beneath. He knew full well it was Simon’s intention for him to transform before the men and fight as his alternate self. As big of a rush as that would be, he was hesitant. There would be little to stop Steelshanks, or even Stonesnake from ordering a flurry of arrows to be buried in his hide. He had to trust his knight though. There was a plan. He was sure of it.

With Stonesnake off to organize the men, Olvar turned his attention fully to Simon. What he expected was a more detailed rundown of their plan, but what he got was completely different. It was a moment not totally unfamiliar, but one that most assuredly he hadn’t experienced since the event that drove him from his home. It was confirmation and validation, in what he had learned from Simon and what he had discovered for himself. It made his chest swell with pride. He stood a little bit straighter. His shoulders rested a little farther back. “Thank you, sir,” he answered with a ghostly smirk, but the glow in his eyes darkened with Simon’s expression.

Of course. The wolf. A key part in tonight’s raid, but potentially the most dangerous element of them all. “I don’t…” There was no point in questioning it at this point. Simon was a reasonable man, but when it came to changing a plan of attack, Olvar found him stubborn enough to shame any mule. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he finally decided.

As he mounted his warg, he felt a stir deep in his belly. A primal beast waiting impatiently for its moment in the spotlight. Ojuk picked up the trail and headed out, letting his alpha wonder only about his worrisome thoughts. If all went well, he would control it just fine, and all of them would end up perfectly safe. If it didn’t go well… The knight in training swallowed and rubbed his throat with a few absent fingers. He would just have to hope he didn’t lose his head to a vengeful blade.

The pair walked on through the snow for nearly six miles, Ojuk snuffling along the trail the whole way. It was a solid path, easily trackable despite the fallen powder from the night before. It had been light enough to settle on top without disturbing much of what was below, trapping any scents between layers of frost. They were making good time, and traveling side by side with his mentor almost made Olvar feel like it was just the two of them on the road again.

“That must be it.”

Ojuk stopped, staring ahead at the ringfort as it clung to the hillside, just as the captive had claimed. It was built within a ring of standing stones, palisades filling the spaces between them save for at the very front. A large wooden gate stood centered among a stake-lined trench system, providing quite effective defense against most invasions. Most.

“So what plan have you come up with?” Olvar asked Simon, dismounting Ojuk. The warg would likely spook the bandits, and so was sent off into the woods to circle the area from out of sight. The two swordsmen would walk into this one together.

The Knight crunched through the snow, following closely behind Olvar and Ojuk. The older man looked at his young squire with envy, mounted as he was. His breath steamed hot over him as he huffed and puffed through the drifts in his heavy armor. Oh to be young again, and mounted. I am no Knight without my mount. Merely a sellsword. How far he had fallen. Sellsword or not, however, he was determined to save what remained of that poor village. The reign of terror of these barbarians had to be put to an end. If he had to do so on foot, then so be it.

The trail lead up the mountainside until through the trees loomed the hideout. Here Olvar wisely dismounted and sent Ojuk away. Simon nodded in approval. "The plan," replied Simon to his squire's query, "is simple." He never took his eyes off the fort ahead. "We walk right up and knock. I'm a hedge knight fallen on hard times, desperate enough to become a robber knight. You're my squire. Their leader will have use of an experienced and well-equipped fighting man." And if not, this plan would fall apart quite quickly. 

"Once we're let in we'll be taken to join them for supper in the hall. We'll play our parts, and when night begins to fall and you feel your change coming on you'll excuse yourself to the privy. Once you've changed and started the diversion I'll return to the gate. Hopefully by then the scouts will have returned to help me. Then Steelshanks and his men pour through and catch the bandits between hammer and anvil. If this goes off as planned my biggest worry is keeping you from killing the prisoners and our allies. I don't want to have to blow the horn Olvar. Do try to compose yourself while acting such a beast." He punctuated that last remark with a playful cuff of the lad's head.

With a smirk Simon led them out past the treeline, up the hill toward the fort. Up close it was an impressive structure. Set in a hilly outcrop of the mountainside, the top was rounded by massive standing stones: the skeleton of an ancient fortress. Now wooden palisades were set between the rocks, blocking access and giving the defenders an elevated shooting position on all sides. Below the crown of the hill a deep ditch was dug, fully staked all around. The gate sat at the head of the easiest slope, though even it was steep. Two taller palisades flanked it on either side. Simon would be hesitant to storm this fortification with the Army of Montefort at his back - the caravan guards under Steelshanks wouldn't stand a chance. They had to take this prize by guile. 

As they approached the gate an archer called out from the rampart. All Simon could make out of him was a shock of dark beard under a pothelm. Gods, even my eyes are fading, he thought with a grimace."Halt! Who goes there?"

Simon reared up at the edge of the trench. "I am Ser Simon de Montefort, and with me Olvar, my Squire. I hear this is the place to come for a man skilled with a morningstar." The man turned and exchanged words with someone down in the yard, and for a moment Simon feared their ploy would fail. Then the scout turned back and yelled, "The Wull will be the judge of that! Wait right there." The great Iron doors swung outward with a groan, and half a dozen men came forward, two carrying planks. They were thrown across the trench, at which point their Serjeant signaled that they could approach. The duo were led through a snow-covered yard and into a pine longhouse. Smoke stained the pine within, mixing with the smell of meat and mead. Shouts and laughter permeated the hall, though the sounds died down as men began looking back at the new arrivals.

At the head of the hall sat a large, gruff looking man clad in chaimail over boiled leather and under furs. An oiled halfhelm rested near him and a large axe leaned against his chair. "What is this, Buckley?" his voice boomed across the hall. The Serjeant stepped forward. "This'n walked right up to the gate Chief. Says he's a knight and t'others his squire. Wanted to see you."

The man peered down at them over his shaggy beard with a frown. "A Knight, eh? D'ya hae a horse?"

Simon shook his head and bit back an exasperated sigh. "No. Caught an arrow in a skirmish with a caravan. Now I'm looking for a man to lend my mace until I can afford a new mount. I heard that you were the man to see for one looking to find some action."

The Wull chuckled. A good sign. "Aye, I am the man for that. Just ask me boys!"

A cheer went up amongst the men gathered in the hall, their feet pounding as their alehorns clanked in the air. Once the roar died down, the Wull motioned them closer. "Lemme look upon ye. Both o' ya." 

With a nod Simon strode to the head of the hall. The man was confident, to be sure. With axe by his side and his men all around, he seemed not at all ill at ease as the large armored knight approached, morningstar and shield strapped across his back. For that Simon gained some measure of respect for the man. Despicable as he might be, he certainly did not lack for courage. Removing his helm, he met the Wull's eye. The chieftan sized Simon up a moment, looking over his dinted plate, his weathered face, his hardset eyes and the scar that ran over one brow. Then he looked over at Olvar. For once, it is good that the lad looks half a scoundrel, Simon thought. 

At long last, the Wull gave a nod. "Alrighty. I tell ya what, ye fight hard n' follow me orders, mayhaps you'll have a place in me merry band. We'll see how well you fight. But first, let's see how well you drink!" The men roared again, downing their horns yet again. "Come join me, Ser Simon. Your lad can find a place at a table below."

Simon nodded to Olvar, then turned with a smile to join the Wull and his captains at the high table. A serving girl brought him a horn of ale and a plate of roast duck. One of the kidnapped villagers, he judged by the fearful and broken look in her eyes. As he began to eat and drink he did what any good nobleman did at court: he got his enemy talking. Simon asked cheerful questions of the Wull, and soon had him going on about his many exploits. All for the better, for it bought him time and freed Simon from much questioning. He didn't want to lie any more than he absolutely had to. Deception is the art of war, he quoted to himself, though it barely aussaged his guilt. The mead helped little either. 

From time to time he glanced toward the small windows, waiting for night to fall…

The plan came across as so open-ended now that the time had come to act upon it. His transformation took time; where would he hide in that time? Would he be able to keep himself silent as his body broke down and rebuilt itself? And should he change successfully, would he be able to maintain his humanity? The squire swallowed thickly, nerves making his fingers fidget on the hilt of his blade. Simon’s confidence brought about a small boost in spirits though. Certainly the older man had seen his fair share of situations at least similar to this. He would know if it were madness. In this scenario, the cuff on the head that normally irritated him came with some comfort.

With a steadying breath, he shrugged his shoulders and stepped forward alongside his knight. The fortress loomed ahead, well-fortified from its position on the hillside. Though Olvar’s eyes scanned the perimeter for weak points, there was scarcely any to note. They had done a thorough job of filling in any gaps between palisade and standing stone. Evenly spaced were guards atop the rampart, keeping a keen eye out for any sign of intrusion. A distraction from inside the walls was definitely the right plan to allow Steelshanks and the men to get in close.

As they approached, a man hailed them from above. Olvar stopped a step behind Simon, a courtesy that he normally ignored, but which would be expected of a respectful squire. His keen ears caught a few words between this guard a man below, and he resisted a smirk. Well-fortified they may be, but success had ruined any sense of caution they might have had previously. It wasn’t long before a path was made for them over the trench, and the pair were allowed entry to the fort.

Beneath the sharpness of the cold, Olvar could smell smoke, both from fire and pipe, as well as sweat, old blood, and no small whiff of booze. He felt a flutter in his heart. So many bodies all in one place. His fingertips tapped a chaotic rhythm against his thigh as they walked. The smells grew stronger as they neared the longhouse, sounds of boisterous laughter and stamping feet joining in.

Olvar held his head high, eyes flashing in the flickering light of the fire as he and Simon strode confidently forward into the heart of the enemy stronghold. While his knight conversed with the leader, the shifter’s gaze bounced between some of the bandits, noting a great variety in appearances and ages. Misfits, he thought to himself. A ramshackle melting pot of outcasts from every walk of life imaginable. Had his life taken a handful of different turns, it was likely that Olvar himself would have ended up in a group much like this.

At the order to approach, the squire’s eyes finally settled on the man in charge, and he moved forward with Simon as requested. When the critical eyes of the Wull traveled from the knight to the shifter, he stood a bit taller, resisting the urge to scowl at such a scrutinous stare. His skin was broken up by a number of scars that suggested a long career of fighting, but only recently with proper armor. Normally distasteful, it seemed in this company to act almost as credentials. The Wull appeared satisfied with the pair of them, inviting Simon to drink with him. As Olvar was dismissed to join the men, he returned the small nod from his mentor, then descended the steps to meet the barbarians they had come to kill.

Barely had he taken a seat when he was assaulted with prying questions, namely of what he could possibly know of real combat, how useful he thought he could be, and so on. The man made a point of taking a drink before answering, and took his time doing so. The recollections he offered were true tales of what he had seen prior to being taken in by Simon, from when he himself had been a bandit, and then a sellsword. The men seemed satisfied by what he had to tell, and it wasn’t long before each man was boasting about victories of their own, likely exaggerated.

Olvar quickly grew to feel quite comfortable amongst the men, only confirming his suspicion of where he could have ended up had life treated him differently. Interruption came in the form of a growl when a pair of men grew especially rowdy, and an ale spilled across Olvar’s place at the table. Luckily the din smothered the sound, but it drew the lycan’s attention to the sky, visible through one of the windows spaced across the longhouse. He felt it in his gut more than saw it. Time to go. He stood, grumbling about needing to relieve himself when questioned.

A shiver prickled down his spine as he walked to the exit, slipping outside and into the cold world that waited for him. Another shiver, this time from the chill. His eyes quickly scanned the fort, but most of the men appeared to be inside, revelling. He headed for the rear of the stronghold, heart fluttering with each step. A dark corner behind a smaller building welcomed him. He stripped out of his gear with fumbling fingers, just throwing his overcoat over his weapons before falling to his knees with a silenced scream.

There was more than one instance where he’d changed in the elements of winter, but never before had he felt the cold so intensely. It crept up through his arms as he writhed in the snow, frosting his twisting bones and tightening already strained muscles. A sharp cry of pain was all he could manage in his frigid throes of agony as the beast took his body as its own. Olvar let the wolf take it. It was his mind that he was clinging to, as he had practiced on new moons previous. Success had been limited, but each attempt had been better than the last. This one just had to be perfect–or extremely lucky.

His transformations had always been punctuated by a roar of victory from the beast, but this one was different. There was no bellow, no howl. The snow was a mess of claw marks and kicks, a few smears of blood from where the wolf had scratched itself in its thrashing. In the center of the disturbed space, the lupundra slowly stood, a low growl falling from its maw. Golden eyes turned skyward to stare at the empty blackness overhead. There was the creak of a door, and the great monster’s head whipped toward the sound. Two men were exiting the building just a few yards ahead, mid conversation when they both spotted the shifter and froze.

Winter itself seemed to hold its breath. The bandits stared, and were stared at in return. A single step back crunched the snow underfoot, and the wolf sprang forward. Two screams rang into the night; one was cut short, the other devolved into a sickly gurgle. Just inside the doorway was a stone staircase leading down into the cold earth. One of the bodies bumped clumsily down it, leaving red smears in its path. The wolf followed. Several guards had been stationed in the dungeons to keep an eye on things, but none had expected an intrusion, especially not from a beast like that which rounded the corner from the stairs to face them. The monster charged, created chaos with every swipe of its claws. By the time the unsuspecting men drew their weapons, he was already upon them, tearing flesh from bone and painting the walls with hot crimson.

The rampage continued on down through the corridors, the wolf often taking corners with a shoulder to the wall before bouncing forward again. The sight of a bloody werewolf careening toward them was enough to make most of the men turn tail and flee, but none there was nowhere for them to escape to. The only path to freedom was filled with the monster their mothers had told them stories of to keep them out of the wilds at a young age. It was inevitable that the men fall beneath ripping claws, or be snared by hungry teeth. One or two ducked into the cells of those they had captured for shelter, huddling with their captives as the beast roared by after their comrades.

Halfway down the line of cells, a bandit dared draw a blade against the horrid invader. A brave soul that gave the beast pause. Just for a moment. The man’s sword clattered to the stone floor as the wolf collided with him, the pair going straight through the wooden cell door. Eager jaws clamped down around the offender’s throat, muting his scream and rendering him a twitching, gagging mess.

The wolf’s ears perked forward. More movement in the cell. Beastly eyes fixated on the captive they had intruded upon, and a low growl like thunder rolled through the dim light. Bloody lips curled back over stained teeth. Huge claws scraped the stone with every advancing step, until the beast’s snout was just inches from the stranger’s face. A hot puff of foul breath. The rumble paused. The smell… familiar, but not quite right. Another wretched breath, strong enough to move the man’s dark hair. The wolf took a step back, ducking it’s head to eye level. A distinct gaze greeted him, and the wolf snapped his jaws together. Familiar, but not quite right. The low rumble started up again. A crash from down the hall was followed by hurried footsteps. Returning to the door, the lupundra stared at the man once more before ducking out and racing down the corridor.

A small group of barbarians had entered the dungeons to investigate the commotion, but those who didn’t panic and flee back up the stairs were quickly cut down by a fearsome force of nature. The wolf was hard on the heels of the retreating bandits though, chasing them out the door and into the quickly staining snow.

As the food and drink were consumed Simon cast glances every now and then at the lower tables, not wanting to miss the moment when his squire would depart. As he looked around it was obvious that the brigands were becoming quite well and drunk. That was good. Drunken men were less likely to notice anything to be amiss. They would be more easily surprised, slower to react, and worst in a fight. They just had to make sure to get that gate open - or this night would be ending quickly for them werewolf or not. Nervousness knotted in Simon's gullet, as it often did before an operation. Despite all the planning in the world, things can and would go wrong - and this was a particularly risky plan. 

After what seemed like an eternity he noticed Olvar excusing himself from the table. As he walked out Simon set to hastily finishing his food and drink as he wound his way out of the conversation at table. At last he pushed his plate away with a satisfied sigh. "Excuse me, I mustneeds relieve myself." The Wull gave an absent nod, drunkenly pulling a woman onto his lap as Simon stood and turned to go. 

Where did he go to turn? Simon wondered as he strode out of the longhall, leaving the sounds and smells of feasting behind him and he stepped into the crisp cold evening air. Hopefully nowhere near the gate. We need him to pull men away from that area, not toward it. But worrying over that would do no good. His change was already on him, it would be too late to change things now. 

Instead Simon made for the gate, stopping behind an outbuilding to relieve himself. He likely wouldn't get another chance. Half a dozen men stood behind the gate, idly chatting with one another as they warmed themselves over a fire. Another two walked the ramparts above it. Simon approached the men and introduced himself properly to the their Serjeant. "Cold night," he remarked casually afterward. 

"It's right fuckin freezing." The Serjeant stated, rubbing his hands together over the fire. "Figures that we draw the watch, while the rest are inside feasting and fucking."

"Scouts returning!" Came a call from the walkway above.

"About fucking time," replied the Serjeant, "We've been waiting for that lot all evenin'. Open the gate boys. Jones and Miller, run out the planks."

The squad moved to obey, pulling open the great oaken doors with curses and grunts. As two men ran out with planks over their shoulders they heard a scream and shouts from behind. It's time.

"What's that?" asked the Serjeant.

"Some kind of commotion. Back behind the longhall, it seems. We should investigate." Simon began to casually unsling his shield and morningstar.

"Aye. Maxie, Riggins, go check it out." The men ran off to investigate, but Simon lagged behind as he donned his weapon and shield. Two less to deal with.

Now a clangor went up from the other side of the gate. "What the fuck is that?" asked the Serjeant.

"My men," Simon replied, just before he brought the morningstar down on his head. The other man was stunned by the sudden assault, stepping back as the Serjeant fell in a quivering heap to the snow. That gave Simon plenty of time to dash forward to bash him with his shield, and smash him once he hit the ground. The men on the ramparts were shouting and blowing a horn as Stonesnake and the other scouts rushed into the gate alongside Simon.

"Nice of you to join me," Simon remarked, his voice sounding hollow and metallic through the grating of his helm. Through his eyeslit he saw Stonesnake smile. "Took a little longer than we thought, but we made it. Steelshanks and the lads are right behind us."

Simon nodded. "Excellent. Let's keep the door open for them. Spread out and defend this spot. Get a few men upon the ramparts as well. We need to disrupt their fire." He punctuated that statement by lifting his shield, just in time to catch an arrow from an archer above. Back behind them men were beginning to trickle out of the longhall, investigating what was going on. It wouldn't be long now before they had a lot more company.