Dana spent three nights slinking through the human caravan camps, her form hidden by the shifting shadows of the towering trees and her own unnatural stillness, honed through years of stalking prey in the frozen wilds.
The crisp northern air carried the scent of burning wood from their fires, mingling with the iron tang of armor, oil and the faint musk of sweat-soaked wool. The crackling flames cast long, dancing silhouettes against the canvas tents, their glow painting the snow-laden ground in flickering amber.
She had counted their numbers, noted their routines, the changing of the guards at midnight, the slow, rhythmic pacing of the sentries as they blew into their cupped hands for warmth, the way the knights polished their dented armor by firelight, their movements stiff from the biting cold. And most crucially, she had learned their weaknesses.
"The knights are disciplined, coordinated, even when setting up their camp they do so with military precision, unlike the usual merchant guards we raid," she reported upon her return, her voice as calm and unreadable as the frozen surface of Blackfang Lake. The firelight in the war tent flickered across her face, casting hollows beneath her sharpened small tusks.This cold detachment seemed to be the new normal for her ever since her brother's death.
Arieus, seated upon a stool of carved blackwood and wolf pelts, exhaled slowly, the mist of his breath curling like smoke in the frigid air as he absorbed her words. The hide walls of the tent shuddered under the weight of the wind, the distant howls of wolves serving as a grim chorus to their planning. He had expected as much.
"The weaver is highly regarded by the men," Dana continued, her fingers tracing the edge of her bone-handled dagger absently. The blade, forged from dread iron, glinted dully in the dim light. "He carries two of those powerful amulets veteran weavers wield, obsidian shards bound in silver, pulsing with a sickly violet light that makes the air around him hum. He moves with the arrogance of a man who has never known true fear. He does not expect an attack in these lands
Gurok shifted where he leaned against the tent's support pole, the wood groaning under his weight. His breath fogged as he scoffed. "Humans never do. They think their walls and sigils will protect them. They forgot why they built it in the first place." He finished with a savage grin.
Arieus' lips curled into a savage grin, exposing his sharpened tusk further in the firelight.This report was exactly what he had anticipated.
For days, he had studied the terrain,the way the road curved like a wounded serpent near the forest's edge, where the ancient oaks grew so thick their gnarled branches choked the sunlight into a mere whisper, were the underbrush was a tangle of thorned vines and half-buried roots, perfect for tripping armored men and slowing their advance. He knew that the snow here was treacherous, uneven, hiding jagged rocks and sudden drops beneath its deceptively smooth surface. A perfect killing ground, that demanded precision.
Yet the weaver high rank complicated things. His presence elevated the danger, and the original plan needed refinement. The strategy forming in Arieus' mind was as brutal as it was beautifully simple. a symphony of violence, each step measured, each death purposeful.
"Remember," Arieus said, his voice a low growl that carried the weight of command, "the weaver dies first. His words of power is the greatest threat. Let him weave but a single spell, and our blood will water the snow."
Dana had nodded, her Blue eyes gleaming like twin moons in the dark. "I will need an opening, but I can reach him. The Kuros user, though..."
Gurok cracked his knuckles, the sound like snapping branches. "Leave him to me. I'll hold him off while the boss gets ready. Let him taste the strength of a descendant of kraggoth before he dies."
They had spent hours refining their strategy, the war tent growing thick with the scent of sweat, iron, and the musky fur of dire wolf pelts. The Krags would split into three groups.
Dana's would take the swiftest hunters, their bodies painted to blend into the snow's cruel embrace. They would strike from the rear like unseen spirits, cutting off retreat, their arrows whispering death upon the enemy.
While Gurok's would lead the strongest warriors, clad in plate and pauldrons,armed with their great axes and war clubs thirsty for knightly blood. They would crash into the humans head-on, a tide of iron and fury meant to shatter their formation.
Finally, Arieus himself would command the main force, a noose of spears and swords, tightening around the knights until the weaver and the Kuros user lay broken at his feet.
Timing was everything. Spotted too soon, and the humans would rally, turning the ambush into a slaughter of his own kin. Yet if we Krags are unable to surround them, the humans might escape to regroup and carry word of the Krags' strength back to their stone-walls and Lord .
"Get some rest," Arieus had ordered, his voice cutting through the murmurs of his lieutenants. Outside, the wind moaned through the trees, as if a harbinger of the storm to come. "For tomorrow, we feast on human fear. Let their last sight be our blades at their throats."
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Arieus crouched low behind a weathered outcrop of jagged black rock, his body as still as the frozen earth beneath him. The stone, veined with ancient frost cracks, bore the scars of countless cold seasons, its surface pitted by wind and time. His breath came slow and controlled, each exhale a thin mist that dissipated almost instantly, the only sign of life in his otherwise motionless form.
His green skin, marked with scars and ritual tattoos, was hidden beneath the thick pelt of his mutant dire wolf cloak, its matted fur crusted with snow. With the shade of the trees stretching across the trampled snow, he was little more than a shadow among shadows. Basically invisible.
Beside him, Gurok shifted, his massive frame barely contained by the claimed human plate he wore, some parts hammered and remade to fit his brutish proportions. The armor creaked under his weight, the steel dulled by layers of dried blood and grime. The hulking lieutenant flexed his fingers around the haft of his battle axe, its edge notched from countless battles, the wood stained dark from years of grip.
The scars across his arms and face told stories, of battles won, of enemies torn apart, of one who refused to die. Arieus had fought beside him for years, through ambushes by deadly beasts in the dead of winter, raids under the moon less nights and battles against other hordes. There was no one he trusted more to hold the line. A loyal lieutenant Gurok has always been.
Somewhere ahead, Dana moved unseen, her lithe form slipping between the skeletal birch trees. Her bow was ready, the fletching of her arrows dyed black to avoid catching the light during her surveillance. The leather of her bracers was worn smooth, the grip of her dagger familiar as her own breath. She was his eyes, his unseen blade, and when the time came, she would strike.
She moved hidden, her presence known only by the occasional rustle in the bushes.
Sixty Krags lay in wait around them, their breath misting in the frigid air, their weapons clutched in eager hands. Their bodies were coiled like snow tigers ready to strike, muscles taut beneath layers of fur and leather. Some bore jagged war paint across their faces, streaks of ash and ochre that marked them as killers. Others wore necklaces of human teeth, trophies from past victories. They were predators, born and bred for slaughter, and today, their fangs would sink deep.
For the White Wilds had always been a harsh land, a place where the weak were culled by blizzard and blade, where only the ruthless and strong thrived. The wind here carried whispers of the dead, and the trees stood like sentinels over the bones of those who had faltered. Arieus had been born in these wilds, molded by its cruelty, forged in its endless struggle, a child of hunger and iron, raised on stories of glory written in spilled blood. And now, he would remake it in his image.
But first, he must gather sufficient strength.
Their prey? According to reports A human caravan of fifty knights, a veteran Weaver and a knight Commander, who is a Kuros users.
Victor's information had been valuable, but his scouts had spent weeks watching the roads, tracking supply trains, bribing human spies with stolen coin. They had even captured an outrider at a tavern, a young knight in training, barely more than a boy, his face still soft with youth, his hands trembling even before the knives came out. It had taken little to break him. His screams had echoed through the trees before he finally gasped out the truth. The Krags were able to confirm the information of Victor and gain even more information than what was provided.
This was no ordinary weapon shipment.
The humans moved under the banner of Lord Veythas, their wagons laden with enchanted weapons, blades that never dulled, their edges humming with barely restrained energy; arrowheads that sought flesh on their own, twisting midair like living things; spears that burned with inner fire, their shafts etched with glowing runes. Weapons meant for a war in the east. Weapons that could turn the tide of his own conquest.
Other caravans had passed through, merchants with silks and spices, their guards lazy and fat; tax collectors groaning under the weight of stolen coin, their escorts dull-eyed and slow; even a noble's retinue bedecked in gilded armor, their arrogance making them blind. But none had been as tempting as this one.
Arieus saw more than enchanted steel. He saw an opportunity.
The weapons were the key.
Human-forged steel, imbued with the weaver's magic, could cut through Krag skin as easily as knife through parchment. If he could seize them, they would no longer be forced to rely on crude iron and sub par swords to arm the his new warriors being trained and the othes on their way. They would wield weapons that could add an extra layer to his plans, and with the right wielders, his band's strength would surpass even the mightiest of their enemies.
"Blades that will turn against their makers." He muttered with a grin.
Gurok grinned, his jagged tusks adding to his savage smile. "Our men are ready, Warchief. But you haven't spoken of your plans for the Kuros user?"
Arieus' lips peeled back into a grin. "Don't worry, just hold him of and leave the rest to me."
Kuros user.
Arieus knows of Kuros very well. The memory of its devastation was etched into his mind.
A single warrior, infused with its corrupting power, could slaughter a dozen Krags with little effort, their bodies torn apart by strength that defied nature. His sister, a "blessed" one who also carried that gift, though still young, had already shown why Kuros users are feared and respected by all.
The way her veins darkened when the power takes hold, the way her eyes ignite. It was an unfair advantage, Arieus thought with a small, predatory grin.
But that power followed the laws of the world, and all power had a price. Therefore...
The thought alone made his blood sing with anticipation.
Now, as the first glint of steel appeared on the horizon, a flash of sunlight on polished pauldrons, Arieus exhaled slowly. The humans marched in tight formation, their knights clad in plate that gleamed under the pale twin sun. Their shields if allowed to form, would become an almost unbreakable wall. Each one emblazoned with the crest of Lord Veythas, a silver wolf howling against a field of black. At the center rode the weaver, a gaunt figure swathed in robes stitched with silver runes that pulsed faintly with every breath he took, the fabric whispering against the saddle of his horse.
And there, at the front, was the Kuros warrior.
Arieus knew him instantly, not just by the unnatural thickness of his arms, nor the way his greatsword rested across his shoulders with the ease of an executioner's axe. No, it was the mark of the Keep burned into the steel of his gorget, the sigil of the Blessed Order under the human lord's command. The warrior's veins were already darkening beneath his skin, pulsing with hidden might, as if the power inside him was eager to be unleashed.
Arieus' fingers dug into the snow, the cold biting into his flesh.
Perfect.
"Remember the plan," he said, just loud enough for Gurok to hear over the wind.
"Of course, boss," the lieutenant rumbled in reply, his fingers tightening around his axe, the leather grip creaking in his grasp.
Now, as the caravan drew nearer, close enough that Arieus could hear the clink of mail, the snort of warhorses, he gave the signal. A single, sharp whistle, like the cry of a snow hawk.
A low chant rose from the Krags hidden among the trees, a war-cry that was more growl than words, a sound that vibrated through the earth itself. It was the voice of the Wilds, hungry and merciless.
Then----chaos.