The Frostwolves

The Forest

The sweat that covered his brow stung his wounds. The filth around him was numbing. Darkness flooded the area he was in. Piles of his brothers, The Lycanthrope, murdered with no second thought. Who could've done such a thing, one may ask? He knew. The Were-Pires were responsible for this. Hybrids of Lycans and Vampires, these beasts were bred to kill. They were known for their murder streaks throughout the Realm of Wuljard. They relentlessly killed and burned towns, villages and a few cities from time to time. Once they ended their raid, they screamed and roared and ran to the trees of The Forest. That, he remembered now, was why he was here; twenty-five men were sent to chase them down into The Forest, and they tried to sniff them out.

Unfortunately, centuries of living in a survival-is-essential-may-the-strongest-win territory had ensured a garanteed success in forest combat. They injured, tortured, killed, mutilated and brutally broke down the ranks of the scout Lycanthropes. For some unknown, they had tortured him, but let him live. He then realized they wanted answers, but for what?

Before he could answer his own question, a feeble moan and a slow dragging sound. He attempted to get up but was restrained by heavy shackles. "I'm in a prison of some sort." He thought to himself.

"Who...who's there?" he spoke, but his voice was raspy and most likely incomprehensible.

"Bloodbane?" Came a voice from the darkness, probably the source of the dragging.

"Coilfang...where are we?" Said Bloodbane, "I'm tied down."

"The Were-Pires...they killed every Lycanthrope they could see. My...my leg is torn off, Bloodbane, I cannot move...the pain..." Silence followed. Bloodbane smelled them coming as well; dead corpses smelled of corruption and rot, but Were-Pires were worse...