Direwolves, towering beasts larger than ponies and twice the size of great hounds, are not merely oversized wolves. Their proportions set them apart, longer legs, massive heads, and pronounced muzzles give them an imposing presence, their silhouettes cutting a terrifying figure from afar. Their coats range from storm-gray with piercing yellow eyes to midnight black with emerald-green gazes, while the rare albino direwolves, white as winter with blood-red eyes, stalk the snows like vengeful spirits.
Intelligent and deadly, they hunt as solitary predators or form formidable packs, their howls echoing through the frozen valleys like the cries of forgotten gods. Some lone direwolves even dominate common wolf packs, ruling through sheer size and strength, their dominance marked by the submissive whines of lesser wolves. Their scent alone unnerves dogs, and horses trained for war, steeds that have faced charging boars and armored knights, recoil in terror at their approach. At the Battle of Greyhill, even the seasoned riders of the plains, born and bred to hunt, faltered when the Northern Tribes unleashed their direwolves, the beasts tearing through their ranks with monstrous grace, sealing their defeat beneath crimson-stained earth.
Once, these wild beasts once roamed the far north in great numbers, but were hunted and tamed by the tribes for their prowess in battle and the hunt. Yet for a hundred years, none have been seen south beyond the White Wilds, not since the Northern Tribes drove humanity back during the dark wars, their howls fading into memory like the last whispers of a dying flame. But the watchers of the Grey tower, those grim sentinels who brave the endless cold, still whisper of hearing their cries beyond the wall, a reminder that the direwolves have not vanished, only retreated, as if waiting for the right moment.
And though they no longer stalk the southern lands, the people of the south have not forgotten. Great stone effigies of direwolves stand sentinel in their halls and upon their battlements, carved in homage to the beasts that once ruled the wilds. Their likenesses loom over feasting tables and council chambers, their frozen snarls a silent warning of the wild power that once walked among men. What would these ancient hunters make of the world now, where men speak of them in hushed legends and their likeness is frozen in stone, a relic of a time when the wilds held dominion over the hearts of mortals?
—Excerpt from The Beasts of Forgotten Age by Philip the Mad Sage
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Femi crouched low, his feet sinking slightly into the snow, still chuckling as he reached out to grab the little beast by the scruff. But as his claws neared, the puppy yelped and scrambled back, its hind leg dragging awkwardly, leaving a faint smear of blood on the snow.
His amusement faded.
"Ah… you're hurt."
A deep gash ran along the pup's back leg, matting its white fur with dried blood. It must have been separated from its pack or orphaned. From what little knowledge he has of wolves, they don't usually wander alone, especially not pups this small.
Femi hesitated.
His first instinct was to leave it. Nature was cruel, and this was just another creature destined to die in this cursed forest, its bones picked clean by scavengers before the next day. But something about the way it trembled, still trying to growl despite its pain, made his chest tighten. The pup's ears were flattened, its tiny fangs bared in defiance, as if daring the world to try and break it.
"Stubborn little thing, aren't you?" he muttered, shaking his head.
Sighing, he reached into his pouch for the small roll of bandages Varga had insisted he carry.
"Alright, let's see if you'll let me help before you bite my fingers off."
The moment his hand got close again, the pup lunged, tiny fangs snapping. Femi jerked back just in time.
"Tch. My friend you better behave, before I flog you."
He grabbed a nearby stick, the wood brittle and dry, and snapped it in half with a sharp crack. Holding one piece out, he watched as the pup clamped down on it with a vicious little growl, gnawing furiously as if the stick were an enemy to be conquered. While it was distracted, Femi quickly looped a length of bandage around its muzzle, tying it snugly.
The pup's eyes widened in surprise of the clever move of this tricky opponent. its muffled growls turning into indignant whining, its body wriggling like a caught fish.
"Quiet my friend. I am trying to help you, but you are here trying to turn my fingers into food."
Gently but firmly, he flipped the pup onto its back, pinning it with one hand while the other worked to clean the wound. The pup thrashed, tiny claws scrabbling against his arm, but Femi held fast.
"Easy, easy. I'm not going to eat you. Though I should, say I have eaten dog meat before, and looks like you'd make a decent stew."
The pup let out a pitiful whine, its struggles weakening as exhaustion set in.
Femi snorted. "Dramatic."
He dabbed the wound with a bit of salve from his pouch, another one of Varga's "survival essentials," a thick, pungent paste that stung but kept infection at bay, then wrapped it tightly with the bandage. The pup squirmed the entire time, but eventually, exhaustion seemed to win out. Its struggles grew weaker, its breathing labored, its sides rising and falling in quick, shallow bursts.
Femi frowned. "Little victim, I don't think you will last long out here alone."
He glanced back toward the direction of the camp. Bringing a wolf pup even an injured one back to the Krags was a terrible idea. They'd either kill it on sight and toss the body or kill it on sight and eat the body, he really can't tell since he hasn't been with them for long to guess their possible reaction.
But leaving it here was a death sentence.
With a grumble, he scooped the pup up, tucking it into the front of his fur cloak, the inside warm from his body heat. The little beast wriggled weakly, but the warmth must have soothed it, because soon, its protests turned into soft, grumbling huffs, its body curling into a tight ball against his chest.
"Don't get used to this," Femi warned, adjusting his grip. "I'm not your mother."
The pup nestled deeper, its tiny body pressed against his chest, its heartbeat a rapid flutter against his ribs.
Femi sighed, long and weary.
I'm going to regret this.
He adjusted his grip on the rabbits, and turned back toward camp, already dreading Varga's reaction.
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When Femi returned, the sun had shifted a fair distance across the sky. He walked back into camp with careful steps, trying not to jostle the small, warm weight hidden beneath his cloak.
Varga was waiting at the entrance, her arms crossed, her sharp eyes scanning the rabbits in his hands before flicking up to his face. He brought them to her, and she took them without a word.
"Good," she grunted. "Now get to work on the pelts."
Femi exhaled in quiet relief. She hadn't noticed.
He moved to the tanning area, a messy corner of camp where the air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the sharp scent of curing hides. An old Krag had once handled this work, but he had died in the Eri's attack, his bones already cremated. Now, a younger one took his place, and despite their brute strength and muscular frame made for breaking heads, some of them were surprisingly skilled in the delicate art of scraping flesh from pelts. Who knew?
But Femi had to learn how to do it himself if he wanted new clothes, and so he settled onto a low stool, pulling a half-finished rabbit pelt toward him. The pup shifted under his cloak, a tiny claw pricking his furry chest in protest.
"Quiet," he whispered, pressing a hand discreetly against the lump in his shirt. "Or we will be caught."
Varga lingered nearby, arms crossed, watching the other Krags work with her usual unreadable expression. Femi kept his head down, fingers moving deftly as he scraped fat and membrane from the hide. The pup squirmed again, its tiny nose poking out from the edge of his cloak for a desperate breath of fresh air.
"Yip"
Femi coughed loudly, shifting his arm to block it from view.
Varga's gaze flicked toward him, her brow furrowing slightly.
His heart hammered, but he kept his expression blank, focusing intently on the pelt as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. After a tense moment, she turned away, barking some orders at another Krag.
Femi let out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly.
The pup, oblivious to the danger, chose that moment to let out a tiny, muffled whine.
Femi's ears twitched. He glanced around, no one seemed to have heard. With a quick, discreet motion, he slipped a scrap of meat from the pile beside him and tucked it into his cloak. The pup's nose wriggled, then tiny teeth snatched the morsel from his fingers, its growls turning into contented chewing.
Greedy little beast.
He worked through the afternoon, skinning and stretching pelts, all while keeping the pup still and silent. Every rustle or wiggle made his muscles tense, but luck or perhaps his village people has not found reason to disturb him. Because no one noticed.
By the time the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the camp, Varga finally dismissed him with a curt nod. Femi stood, stretching his stiff limbs, and made his way toward the small shelter he'd claimed as his own, a haphazard arrangement of sticks and covers that barely kept the wind out. It was better than sleeping outside in the cold, at least.
Only when the covers were securely shut behind him did he finally pull the pup free.
It blinked up at him, bandaged leg sticking out awkwardly, its fur matted with dried blood and dirt. Now that they were alone, it seemed less inclined to bite, just exhausted, its earlier defiance drained away.
Femi sighed.
"Alright, you little trouble maker," he muttered, setting it down on a pile of old furs. "You live another day. But if you get me in trouble, I'm flogging you."
The pup yawned, curled into a ball, and promptly fell asleep, its tiny chest rising and falling in steady rhythm.
Femi stared at it for a long moment. Then, with another sigh, he grabbed a spare rag and began cleaning the blood from its fur.
I'm definitely going to regret this.