Lo and behold comes the tale of Lord Isildor's prodigious spawns,

Wayward Lord Folduin; but also his boys, valiant Edor and charming Paeris

One warlike, the other amorous,

Neither utter pawns, nor sacred icons

One bound to a golden bowstring, the other kissing Kallister's ring,

Yet both serving the same King.

-Lord Isildor-

Venalon O' Mormiel

-600 BIC to 3006 IC

From his epic poem 'Bloodlines' written around 1234 IC

-

'Here is some insight to impart,

For this vile mongrel cracked the old witch's chest open,

and devoured her beating heart.'

The Nigurug

Summer of 3401 IC

-

Some hours prior

A putrid smell came from the Acid Lake.

It is Sulphur, Draug had told him. Bad water.

The journey had strained the pack's nerves, and tensions had arisen. The younglings too eager to attack travelers and their brethren not keen on stopping them. Bragur had managed to keep the stray killings to a minimum, but less than a week back a caravan hand stubbornly went after a youngling and the pack had retaliated with a vengeance.

They killed the horses and the livestock, slaughtered women and children which was shameful, but in the end they had consumed all and sundry. Draug wasn't happy, because Nym had asked them to keep a low profile.

Difficult to do it out of the woods, Bragur thought and stared at the hoary Alpha's back intently. The wide rim of his rattan hat protected Bragur's eyes from the morning sun and allowed him to stay in his natural form for longer.

A Varg could look like a person when in a calm state or if its blood wasn't too wild.

Unless the moons were full.

And the moons are almost full.

To make the blood better one needed to find a Luna wolf amongst the she-wolves of the pack and claim her. A skilled female wasn't always a Varg, but a male Varg couldn't be an alpha or form its own pack without one. The pack had three females but the two surviving were nothing special and the one Luna their Alpha had used to make the rest of the pack had been slain by Nulanos.

The rest of the pack that is, for Bragur had a different mother.

"Harr… I'll take… care of the patrol… Harr," Draug rustled and turned his head to stare at his first offspring.

"What about… Harr… inside the garden?" Bragur growled, still furious with Draug's decision to take no prisoners. "We can keep the witch… or the girl?"

"You'll… keep nothing… Harr…. As long as Dar Eherdir breathes... no one's is safe. Ask… Minuet Moll… The half-breed… is too dangerous. A ghoul… in its soul. He'll… hunt you down. And you… never fought a mature witch. You come upon Dar Eherdir… afore me…. You finish him off… Harr… immediately. But not if he's… harr… expecting you. The ashen ghoul makes… trophies… Harr… of his careless enemies." Draug retorted angrily. "You'll find… a mate. But not this… time."

"When?" Bragur rustled aggressively and several young males turned their heads, cunning smirks forming on their mouths in anticipation of a bloody brawl.

Bragur wanted to fight, but knew he'll lose. Nym didn't want them fighting with each other also. It was like serving two masters.

"Clear out the garden… Harr… learn patience… or you'll turn into prey," Draug growled and opened his palm to show him the incense burning there.

No Varg had managed to follow after Draug's footsteps. Bragur was the only one who had a chance due to his richer blood, but although Bragur was skilled his soul longed for the endless forests, the long hunts and not the foul mystique of Nym's Circle. With a knowing sneer the elder Varg and Third Servant of the Circle leaped backwards into the thick reeds and disappeared.

Larn

Tir Ral-Nor

'Dar' Eherdir O' Lome

Fae O' Elum

Fifth Servant of the Circle

Hunter's bait

Present time

Early morning,

On the 6th of Metelaire Asta 3401 IC

He's going to walk away, the injured Larn thought watching the Fiend pick up a tool-bag filled with spears and harpoons, before walking inside a thick lot of brown and green bushes that sprung between a pair of large sycamore trees near the forest trail.

Why?

Larn heaved upwards with his legs, pushing against the trunk, the tight rope burn and then cut the skin on his neck, his throat blocked and tiny red spots filling his vision. The noose turned slippery soaked in his blood, but his raised right arm's fingertips finally touched the pommel of his stuck dagger.

Come on.

There was a constant buzz from the light breeze dancing between the branches, more noise coming from the distant burning trees that crackled as the fire started to spread right at the periphery of the relatively dry Orchard forest, and the howls of the agitated Varg searching the trees.

Where in Oras Shades is he? Larn wondered, unable to locate the Fiend, but not soon after he had started fiddling with the dagger's handle to dislodge it, bleeding from a partially-ruined liver and vomiting blood, short for air and slowly decapitating himself on the tight noose trying to find more give to reach the blade, a familiar muscular figure appeared in the smoke-covered trail. The narrow path coming from the east and the meadows. One of many.

Dar Draug moved deceptively slow, his monstrous frame now devoid of the cloak and only clad in the chainmail shirt, under the weapon harness. He was burned badly, but it was an older wound this, and not caused by the witch's magic.

Great, Larn thought, dirty rivulets of sweat running down his face, whilst desperately working the dagger back and forth in an awkward manner, his arm raised over the right shoulder to the point of dislocating and nervous fingers searching backwards in the blind.

A Fiend working with Nym. Not even Aken make pets of them, but it's so insane a notion, it just might barely make sense for that crazy bitch.

Only it didn't.

Made sense that is.

Wait…

Draug paused at the edge of the trail, less than fifteen meters from the trapped assassin, where the ground flattened to turn into an inclined semi-opening that continued on towards the river's banks. The werewolf's nostrils expanded as he sniffed at the slowly fouling air, his heavy-breathing easily heard by Larn's low-ringing ears.

"Half-breed…Harr," Draug rustled gutturally and unsheathed his custom sword, before starting his careful approach towards his old colleague. Although Larn was never friendly with him and Dar Nym's favoritism repulsed not only Ralnor but some of the others as well. Not Minue-Mol. That motherfucker was sick to his core. Anyhow, young Larn was just plucky enough to point out the difference between a beast-caring leader and the depravity of full-blown bestiality. "Lingos… Mol… Ylir… harr… you turned against the pack. Your own. Stay in your… place… Harr… you didn't."

No one sees things like you do, fucking boneheaded brute!

Ah.

That's it then, he thought noticing movement amidst the bushes on the werewolf's left shoulder. It came and went.

"What… harr… is this…?" Draug rustled, a hairy, triangular ear shifting towards the sound, followed by a half-turning motion of his monstrous head.

"Hunter's bait," a perturbed Larn hissed raspingly, at last managing to dislodge the dagger from the trunk and with an angry growl Draug snapped his head again towards the snarling assassin.

So he didn't even see the Fiend's harpoon that whipped from the opposite side of the forest glade and connected with the Varg's torso with a loud thud. Shit. Free yourself. Now. Draug stumbled sideways with a pained growl and a protracted, totally otherworldly as much as primordial, cavernous roar answered back.

The rumble split with a brief pause right in the middle.

"EAAAHHHRRGURG… AAAHGHRRH!"

A tensed Larn surged the flat of the dagger on the side of his neck, run it upwards and then slotted the sharp tip under the tight rope -nicked himself in the process, while the stunned Draug tried to locate the fast moving Fiend, while also attempting to pull the harpoon out of his chest.

The shadows and thick bushes had helped the creature hide from the ambushed Varg.

The most disturbing fact was that the Fiend had used Larn as bait, and the detail did not escape the also badly injured half-breed assassin, who sank to his knees when the rope was finally cut with a desperate pained grunt. Draug snapped his head towards the stooped Larn and out of the bushes came the Fiend –right behind the Varg and next to the east trail he'd followed- brandishing a spear with both hands.

Bait rarely survives a hunting trip.

Unless it falls out of the bag.

Also, how many darn weapons are inside that tool bag?

Well-prepared motherfucker!

The Fiend made three quick steps and then leaped five meters, spear aimed at the twisting werewolf alpha, who was again a second slower. The spear's blade punching at his left ribcage through the chainmail shirt.

But not deep enough.

Draug had put a hand on the shaft and despite the grotesque Fiend's heave, the spear's blade stopped about half-way in. The Varg's sword-wielding right arm snapped to gore his ambusher but the Fiend let go of the shaft and rolled away with an unnerving cackle. Dar Draug was left with two spears (one was a harpoon) stuck in him and instead of going after the Fiend he paused, breathing heavy, in order to stab the sword down. With a low grunt the wounded Varg removed the spear from his ribs, hefted it over his head and then hurled it towards the reappearing Fiend.

The latter dodged with ease, and then dragged that heavy leather tool bag out of the bushes. He dug a hand inside and produced another spear with another cackle.

"Harr...you..." Draug rasped, his rough voice hinting at recognition, just as Larn struggled to rise himself. The sweaty and bleeding like a faucet half-breed fumbled with the blood-soaked shaft embedded in his own body -missing that finger not helping, but then his knees buckled, and Larn collapsed with a frustrated groan.

"Nobody likes strange peeping mutts. But then you finally locate your hairy witness," the freakish Fiend rustled, flipping the spear in his arms with ease. "Attached to the fucking hip with a crazy cunt, who probably has the idiot Monarch's ear, all whilst slurping at his syphilis-lathered cock, because it's how them folks roll these days. Hypocrites and liars," he added all-indignant and whistled a strange, grating to the ear tune, afore continuing. "Fuck them. Of course you quickly come to realize you have to do everything yourself, because your gutless partners are scared shitless of her!"

Hmm.

Sudden peculiar development.

A mystery even.

Who the fuck cares?

Doesn't help me at all!

"Argh… harr…" Draug growled in response –never the most eloquent of creatures when angry, slowly extracting the harpoon from his innards –since what he lacked in eloquence he made up in vitality, a move the gnarly-grimacing Larn tried to replicate from several meters away and still knelt under the tree trunk, but with far less success.

Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

Devils and crumbling hells.

Meds are in the satchel, Ralnor thought trying to locate the missing bag, as he'd lost it whilst the Fiend was dragging him towards the tree tethered by the neck. The aforementioned creature watched –mildly shocked- as Draug all but un-impaled himself from the harpoon and letting out a frustrated grunt the Fiend decided to move against the werewolf again. Two strides in, Draug chopped the harpoon's protruding shaft to free up his movement and leaped from his standing position, to intercept the advancing Fiend.

Or crash it under his bulk.

The deceptively dexterous Fiend yet again twisted out of the way of the landing hairy beast, and speared Draug through the thigh with both hands. He chuckled, then ducked under a sword slash, but got nailed by a brutal backhand from the growling werewolf that send the stunned Fiend flying backwards with a broken jaw.

Breathing heavy, the bleeding from several spots Draug, reached to extract the spear from his thigh, keeping his sword extended to control another attack from the faltering Fiend.

"Stubborn fucking mongrel," the latter cursed, his deformed jaw-bones crackling, and chipped pieces falling as he tried to gauge the damage with a hand. "Guess, I'll have to try again," he added in frustration and walked towards his tool bag, just as the deteriorating Larn located his a couple of meters from the sycamore tree trunk with its leather strap snapped.

It was at this point that Aelrindel's voice reached the small Forest's opening.

"Tir Ral-Nor?"

Damn.

Draug let out a growl, still in the process of removing the spear from his leg, but the Fiend stopped to answer the unseen sorceress' call –Aelrindel was somewhere on the smoke-covered dark trail heading east- in a normal Zilan voice and perfect court Imperial.

"Here our good lady," the Fiend yelled and lowered the loose skin on his face with a finger in order to cover some more of his lower skull. Ralnor could see the deformed bones moving underneath, but the Fiend could now pass for a humanoid in the dark.

Unless you looked closer.

"Ralnor?" Aelrindel queried now closer and a light chased the darkness away, which didn't help the grimacing Fiend's case and Larn put everything he had in a hoarse bark just as the pretty sorceress came to view in the trail, under a small levitating sphere of light.

A hissing fireball dancing between her upturned hands.

"Blast the Fiend!" Larn growled the moment she locked eyes with him and Aelrindel turned to behold the two beasts facing each other several meters away from the still knelt assassin.

"What?" the affronted Fiend snapped with a glare of surprise for the still-breathing now-freed half-breed and added in a reasonable voice. "Here it is then Edlenn's spawn, thy mother's killer."

"Aelrindel!" Larn grunted seeing the sorceress' frown. "KILL THE FIEND!"

"Argh… Harr… I know… you," Draug rustled at the disfigured Fiend, who took a step back and added in a much clearer singing voice this time, flooded with fake sadness.

Clearer, but not particularly pleasant.

"Here is some insight to impart," the Fiend sang without moving his mouth. "For this vile mongrel cracked the old witch's chest open, and devoured her beating heart."

The creature's evil cackle reverberating amidst the Orchard's old trees.

Devious son of a bitch!

Draug's muscles tensed up just before he leaped against the retreating Fiend, but this time the Varg didn't move. The werewolf's legs stood tangled with several vines that had sprouted out of the dark soil.

Root, the solemn sorceress had whispered, the growing fireball hissing and sizzling in her hands, the light revealing her strained face. "Is this true?" She asked in Imperial and Draug's monstrous head slowly turned to look at her with cunning wolf eyes.

"Dead… Harr… the witch… was," the vile Varg lied.

Eh. She not that dumb dude.

Larn heard the thin roots crackle as they snapped and opened his mouth to warn the shaking witch, but Aelrindel beat him to it.

"Bad wolf," the scowled sorceress told the leaping her way Varg in a hoarse voice and her fireball intercepted the bulky beast mid-air. It exploded on Draug's chest, blowing away flesh, armour and bones before ripping right through the breaking apart werewolf.

Draug did hit the ground a moment later, but it was in many smoldering pieces.

"You're injured," Aelrindel told the snarling Larn soon after, stooping over him.

No shit.

"The… Fiend got away," he hissed, while she put a hand on his wound to stop the bleeding.

"What Fiend?" She asked, still rattled from the encounter. "This was the Varg that killed my mother!"

"Argh… get the bag," Larn grunted, very frustrated. "There… damn it!"

"How bad is it?" Aelrindel asked, using a spell to move the satchel near her legs. "Where was this Fiend of yours?"

"Right there. He wasn't a man. Never mind," Larn groaned, when she poured a healing potion inside the bleeding wound. "I have internal damage. Give me another."

"You can't… I'll cast a healing spell," Aelrindel argued with a glance at what was left of the burning Draug. Nym will have a fit, Larn thought. The pack…

"You need to get out of the woods, or head for the river," he told her and grabbed the uncorked vial from her hands.

"Soletha needs help," she told him with a grimace of frustration. "I can handle the darn Varg!"

With Draug out of the picture, she wasn't wrong in a sense.

Larn pressed his back on the tree trunk, already feeling the effects of the first potion.

"Move fast and keep your eyes open," he grunted. "They are after me, but I'll be alright."

Aelrindel stared in his face unsure. "Don't take another right away," she warned and a howling interrupted her words towards the end. "Can you make it to Toutatis camp?"

Larn couldn't move at all.

"Don't worry about it," he reassured her with a strained smile.

The moment the sorceress was far enough, Larn downed the second potion, grimaced –a severe spasm ravaging his face- and then passed out banging the back of his shaved head on the trunk.

Hours later

Larn came about with a terrible headache, his mouth gluey and tasting of vomit. He'd a strident aching sensation to his innards and his limbs felt numb. Larn smelled smoke in the night air mixed with the odors usually permeating a thick jungle. Moist bark and soft soil, covered with rotting leaves.

Burned flesh.

He cracked a blurry, veined eye open and stared at the darkish opening. The moons light passed through the canopy to help a bit, until his Zilan vision adjusted. He spotted Draug's carcass, some of it burned to a crisp, but for the werewolf's head and upper part of his torso, with a bit of the right shoulder still attached, laid about ten meters away. Everything else was missing and was scattered all over in larger or smaller chunks of burned flesh.

Or body parts.

With a grunt he attempted to stand on his feet, and Larn finally managed it with great difficulty with the help of the tree trunk, all the while clenching his teeth to combat the pain. He took a moment to compose himself, the sounds of distant howling mixed in the soft breeze reaching his sensitive ears.

I hope the witch remembered, she doesn't need to play around.

Larn stared at Draug's destroyed body again, and realized the Varg's good eye was moving. But there was no coming back for his old colleague. The half-breed walked near what was left of the werewolf leader, stopping to pick up the Varg's custom sword from the ground. He hobbled most of the way there and finally stopped right above Draug's half-ruined wolf-like face.

"The pack…" Larn told the glaring back at him with hatred Varg. "…came at me first. For this, I'm going to kill you all, your mistress included."

A hiss came out of Draug's parted, grotesque mouth and Larn nodded pressing the blade on the werewolf's muscular neck. Then he started sawing it back and forth without sentiment, until he was rudely interrupted in common imperial.

"Hey there… mister," the voice said and Larn paused briefly to glance at the immerging Zilan. The stranger had some good pieces of armour on, mainly leather, a couple of blades and a sword on a well-maintained weapons harness. A travelling bag over his left shoulder. Hmm. "What are you doing there?"

None of your fucking business?

Larn grimaced and made a quick mental count of the weapons he had on him, realized he was a bit low and went back to sawing to hopefully draw the stranger closer. Not a moment later, twigs snapped under heavy boots and two more figures appeared on both sides of the Zilan. Two humans, much-better armored in leather sets and armed with blades.

Adventurers.

Only adventurers rarely came to the garden, given there was better 'loot' to be found elsewhere in Wetull.

"Goodness me," one of them said. "What is he doing? Is that a wolf?"

In a sense.

"Biggest wolf I've ever seen," his partner chimed in whilst Larn finished sawing off Draug's head and stooped to grab it by its half-burned gory pelt. He'd spotted one of the Fiend's spears not that far away and its tool bag.

"Hey," the Zilan tried again when Larn walked to the spear to pick it up, after sheathing the sword in his belt. He still carried the Varg's severed head, leaving a trail of gore to drip down behind him. "What in Goddess' tits are you doing mate?" Larn stabbed the spear down and then nailed Draug's head on the end of the shaft as a trophy.

And a message.

"I don't think that's a wolf Austen," one of the humans noticed. "Menlzon, I hate to be the bringer of uncomfortable news, but doesn't he fit your description?"

Larn smacked his lips and turned around to eye the nervous Zilan leader.

"I don't see a witch Sesto," he grunted and a severe spasm distorted Larn's sweaty, pale face. Half of it anger, half of it from his injured liver. Menlzon caught the change in his demeanor and reached for a sword he had strapped at his waist.

"There is no need for that," Larn assured him, just as Toutatis –followed by a flushed Labriel- stepped into the opening right behind the three adventurers –dabbling in bounty hunting.

Menlzon noticed Ralnor's stare and twisted around to be greeted by Toutatis unnerving grin and teenage freckles.

"Hello again," his pupil said in a friendly manner at the stunned Zilan leader.

"You… where is Vydnisol kid?" Menlzon managed to say, starting in a stunned grunt, but sounding more reasonable after the first couple of words. Toutatis glanced at Larn and then pursed his mouth troubled.

"He hurt his head," Toutatis finally said in a low voice.

"Fuck did that creep say?" Sesto rustled unsure.

"Hurt his head," Toutatis repeated louder.

"How?" Menlzon asked and they all moved further apart from each other, to give them a better plan of attack.

"Tripped on a rope, found a boot at the other end of it," Toutatis said and then grinned as if it was hilarious.

"Goodness me," Austen gasped and unsheathed his sword. "Is he alright?"

"Whose boot?" Sesto queried.

"Mine," Toutatis replied with a shrug. "Twas an accident."

"Fuck," Austen cursed and stared at the sober-faced Larn, standing next to the spiked Varg's head. "Chief?"

Menlzon grimaced, sweat rivulets trickling down his forehead as the wind blew harder. It whistled through a chestnut tree's thick branches, before reaching the two opposing groups –Larn was standing on his own, and a massive figure appeared behind Labriel and Toutatis. The rattan hat-wearing Varg, clad in a longcloak towered over the teenage Zilan female, who had stood silent up until that point. Either because she had recognized Draug's severed head, or because she hadn't and the sight was too much for her.

Toutatis caught the warning in Larn's stare and snapped into action but Labriel didn't have time to react. She screamed, a desperate wail of undulated agony that ended abruptly when the Varg's jaws ripped most of her throat out, all but decapitating the hapless Elderborn.

Labriel collapsed lifeless in front of the shocked Toutatis and the three adventurers sprang to action against this new threat. Sesto who stood closer to the muscular werewolf went to hack at the beast, but the staff the Varg carried lashed out first and cracked his arm at the elbow.

"GARGGH!" Sesto growled in shock and twirled about to escape, Austen's spear punching air as the second Varg leader of the pack, leaped backwards with ease. He landed five meters away and lithely rose up, planting his staff down to eye the unwilling to engage him adventurers. But for Toutatis that is. The teenager had pursued the dodging Varg with a murderous expression on his strained face, and armed with a shortsword.

He's going to get himself killed.

"You'll face me Varg!" Larn's voice boomed, giving it his all and the Varg slowly turned his large snout to behold the ashen-faced, half-breed. The werewolf's eyes flickered going from Ralnor to the gruesome trophy adorning this small remote glade inside the dense Orchard.

The large male Varg narrowed his yellow eyes and smiled a beastly smile, his right arm –the one wielding the long staff- extending to keep the sneaking up Toutatis at bay.

"Next time ghoul," the werewolf rustled gutturally, speaking much more clearly than Draug had ever managed. "You won't see me coming."

"That's what he thought. Plenty of spikes in that bag," Larn retorted indifferently, with a grimace of discomfort. "For another head."

The Varg licked his gore-covered mauve lips, let out a warning growl aimed at the still trying to flank him Toutatis and then leaped with stunning agility to the top of a sycamore tree. The branches stirred once and then the werewolf was gone.

"The arm is fucked Austen!" Sesto growled in pain.

"Chief?" A disturbed Austen asked the agitated Zilan and Menlzon snapped his head towards him. "Are there more of them things around? Witches, ghoulish killers and giant wolves! We got to draw a plaguing line somewhere!"

"Shut up! How am I supposed to know that?" He blasted him and then nervously turned his head to watch the slowly moving towards the bloody corpse of Labriel, sober half-breed.

"It was a Varg. Not of this place," Larn told them kneeling near the dead female Zilan. "Sleep well, little one," he told the frozen in shock, death-touched face of the young Elderborn and closed her eyes. He looked about him under the three unnerved adventurers' intense scrutiny and located a dagger in Labriel's leather waistband.

He run a hand over the female's chest next and went to unbutton her shirt to reach the better parts underneath.

"I liked her," Toutatis told him warningly. He had approached silently and was now standing over Larn's right shoulder. Larn grimaced, flipped the dagger in his maimed left hand and stood up with a sigh.

"She's dead."

"I still like her," Toutatis repeated, keeping his sole eye on his tutor.

"What is he going…?" A haunted Austen wondered.

"That's it," Menlzon decided cutting in and turned to his nervous lackeys. "Nothing to see here boys. We'll head back up the river mister?"

"Name's Larn."

"Mister Larn," Menlzon said respectfully with a grimace and glanced at the scowled Toutatis. "Kid. Sorry about the mix-up earlier. Vyd is still at the camp?"

"Yep," Toutatis replied and added. "Been a while. He might have lost his purse to a porcupine. They are very sneaky."

"Right," Menlzon murmured, trying to keep the annoyance from his voice. "Well, I guess it is what it is."

"Who paid for the contract?" Larn asked them as they had turned to walk away, Sesto tentatively holding his broken arm folded over his chest.

"It was a favor," Menlzon replied hesitantly. "Best stay out of it Mister Larn."

"Best for who?" Larn retorted and the Zilan gave him a nod of understanding, before walking after his friends.

"Hey, where's is she?" Toutatis asked him a moment later, but Larn collapsed to his knees with a grunt of pain. He hissed in frustration and then dropped to his arse. "Are you alright?"

"Not really," Larn grunted with a glance at the quiet glade. "We need to move out of here. Give me a hand."

"Go where?"

"Go and find the sorceress."

"Um. You look like a really old shit. How were you going to fight the Varg back then?" Toutatis asked never mincing his words, and helped him stand on his legs again.

"I didn't have to," Larn retorted. "Gravitas."

Not always earned.

The Fiend could have killed him easily back there.

"Fuck is that?"

"What you don't have yet."

"Aha. It must not be much the way ye look!"

"Don't play smart with me boy. How were you going to fight him?"

"I don't know," Toutatis admitted sadly and stared at Labriel's corpse. "She didn't deserve this."

Larn let out a deep sigh. His throat hurt on every breath, everything inside squeezed, generally roughed up and the cut under his chin had opened up anew whilst talking and bothered him.

"Life owes no man or woman any favors," Larn grunted. "And is equally cruel to all, whether they deserve it or not."

"Well, that sucks," the teenager griped.

"Nah," Dar Eherdir replied gravely and started hobbling east following the trail out of the jungle. "It just makes it interesting. Get both bags."

It took them two hours to slow-walk through the thick trees, cross the raging forest fires and by the time they reached the flat also burning meadows, the moons had almost left the sky and Larn's throat felt like sandpaper. Amidst the thick smokes and morning mist, the large wyvern appeared over the scattering Varg and due to the fact the crooked Monarch and the angry sorceress had one solution that fitted all their problems apparently, the wyvern started bombarding everything that moved with abandon.

When loud trumpets from the army patrols and first responders on the ground warned and signaled for the flying Monarch to stop this madness, the maniacal Garth obliged briefly until he spotted Larn getting out of the smoking Orchard…

And then the wyvern started spouting fire again.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.