Wulfhaven

“Sir, are you ready for the interrogation?”
Edgar Thorvard lifted his chin at the sound of the guard’s voice but other than that, he did not make a move, only his shadow danced in the flickering torchlight. His hands unclasped from behind his back and he let out a long sigh before nodding and walking solemnly out the door and past the guard. As he walked down the long hallway, he wondered how it ever came to this point.
Wulfhaven was supposed to be impregnable, yet the wolves had found a way through and the dead are still being buried in salt-lined graves. One of the beasts had attacked even his own son and it was only a miracle that he had not been inflicted with the lycanthropic disease as a result. Now Edgar had even more problems as the wind carried whispers of a mob calling for the werewolf’s head on a pike.
The guard opened the door to one of the town hall’s single cells and Edgar did not hesitate stepping inside. Relatively clean from lack of use, the stone extension of town hall is still an uninviting place. Lit by candles rather than torches, darkness dominated the single room, with a quarter-section cut off by iron bars.
The magistrate’s skin turned to gooseflesh upon entering but he managed to suppress a cold chill that churned in his spine. By no means was Magistrate Thorvard a physically imposing man but his posture showed a supreme, possibly daring confidence in his station. The way he holds his head up but his gaze cast down made him look like he was looking down even on those taller than he.
This posture might work to intimidate a fellow citizen of Wulfhaven but Edgar did not expect him alone to have any effect on his prisoner; that is why he held in his hand a long iron rod with a red glowing tip.
“Where is the rest of your pack located she-wolf?” Edgar’s voice was quiet but stern, much like the man it belonged to. He made sure to stay in the shadows as he spoke, to keep his face hidden. Earlier inquisitions proved useless but so far, torture had not been involved.
Edgar would have volunteered for this from the start if he had not been so wrecked with worry for his wounded son. One of the monsters, possibly even this one here had managed to sink its claws in to the back of his leg and Edgar had to do everything not just to treat the wound but also to hide it. Possible contraction of lycanthropy would not be tolerated by the citizens, even of a magistrate’s son and the best-case scenario would be ostracizing, practically death in the cold wilds of northern G’ael.
None dared to draw close enough to the cage that the werewolf might somehow reach out and touch them never mind do anything to harm her. Edgar is not a coward though. In fact, that might just be his greatest fault.
But then, neither was the woman crouched within the furthest corner of the cell. Maria could be called a great many things, but coward was not among them. The stench of damp musty air assaulted her senses and her nostrils flared angrily as she set her gaze upon the man she deemed responsible for her confinement. Her piercing grey eyes held a wolfish gleam to them as they peered out from behind a cascade of unkempt hair.
She shifted her hands, feeling the weight of the shackles about her wrists – an unnecessary precaution by the townspeople. Iron and stone walls proved formidable enough barriers to keep her at bay, but paranoia drove their actions. Even now she could hear the sounds of a gathering crowd beyond the prison walls – an altogether too familiar situation.
Edgar's words were too quickly spoken to pick apart his dialect clearly, but the dim red glow of the iron rod was unmistakable. “I am Liulfring. Release me,” Maria commanded. Her voice came out as a low throaty growl and her words were thick with a foreign accent.
Despite her clear agitation, Maria didn't prowl her cramped cell or waste her energy throwing herself about and trying to break free. She simply crouched there, muscles coiled and her eyes unwavering in their heated gaze upon Edgar's shadowed form.
“Ya’ hear that?” the guard laughed. “The feral bitch thinks it has a name!”
Edgar shot a hard look the guard’s way but quickly turned his attention back to the caged beast. He dared to step forward as if to jab the hot poker in between the bars but just as it would seem he is going to, he flipped the poker up towards his face.
As if to try to appear more menacing, Edgar held the glowing spike close to his eyes as he leaned in close to the cage to look her in the face. “I do not care what you are called. Tell me where the rest of your pack is or I will stab out your eyes.”
There was no venom in his tone, his voice was utterly calm just to display that he, and he alone had full control of the situation. He pretended not to hear the growing ruckus outside and looked at the werewolf as if she were the only other person in the world.
“Now tell me.”
As Edgar moved his face close to the bars, coiled muscles sprang into action and Maria lashed out with little warning. Though the sudden movement prompted Edgar to jerk back from her cell, the shackles about her wrists left her efforts falling short by several inches. Staring him dead in the eye, Maria boldly spat upon the floor between them.
“You will release me,” she reiterated forcefully.
Edgar’s face suddenly belonged to a different man who was not nearly as confident as this façade displayed. Suddenly it belonged to one Babyface Ed, an insufferable nickname Edgar’s soft skin and features earned him as a child. Those same features remained true in Edgar today and showed especially like a scared lamb when the werewolf jumped at him. With a yelp, Edgar fell flat on his behind but not before the poker clattered to the ground and rolled underneath him. A second yelp quickly followed the first when Edgar’s rump planted firmly on the flat side of that hot poker.

Asborjn Thorvard paced back and forth in his chambers, working himself in to a sweat despite his wooden shutters being wide open. He had full intentions of leaving when he had opened them but had hesitated and he could not figure out why. Was he scared of the possible truth? Just thinking about it made his leg throb even more and Asborjn was forced to stop pacing to reach down and rub rigorously at the throbbing muscle.

Standing back up, he caught sight of another scar, an older scar. When he was still just a boy he had convinced his father to let him learn how to ride a horse. He turned out to be clumsy on the otherwise graceful beast, jarred by every sharp movement despite his exceptional weight. The very last time he rode a horse he had lost hold of the reins when the animal suddenly bucked forward. He stopped himself from landing on his head but earned a scar from his elbow to his wrist for the effort.

Now he had a new scar but one he could not show and associated with no tale he would tell in the tavern. The only thing this new scar gave him was a possible curse. A life as half-man, half-animal… a monster.

The very thought of it had Asborjn rushing at the window as if he meant to leap out but instead, he stopped and embraced a cold breeze, bathing in it like a dog in the sun. Opening his eyes, Asborjn caught sight of a dozen or more torches moving through the streets and took that as his sign. The magistrate’s son rushed in to his closet and produced a long yet dull cloak that he rarely wore in town.

Pulling the hood down, the young man jumped on to his windowsill and looked down upon the streets of Wulfhaven. He always loved the freedom the roofs of the city gave him on those occasions he could manage to get out. The sight of a few of his father’s own workers rushing out of the house to join the forming mob only reassured him that he would easily make it to the town hall without being recognized.

The night was young and even the throbbing in his leg did not hinder Asborjn from nimbly picking his way down from his window and in to the streets.

Asborjn’s slinking through the alleys quickly turned in to sprinting through the streets. By now, there was no one out that was not heading the same place he was and it was easy enough to blend in among the brandished torches and shovels. As the crowd began to gather in to a larger mob outside of the town hall doors though, Asborjn took a different, albeit longer path.

When he made it to the back door he unlocked it with the key he took from his father’s dresser. By the time he made it to the hallway his father had walked down earlier, all of the guards had moved further out to help contain the restless crowd. When he reached the door though it was locked and so he started pounding on it with his fists.
“Father! Father, open the door!”

Back inside the room, the loud banging upon the door momenarily drew Maria's gaze away from the fallen magistrate. Her lips peeled back into what almost appeared to be a grin, but the gleam in her eyes and the intensity of her stare betrayed her nefarious thoughts.
The guard quickly moved to help Magistrate Thorvard back to his feet. Edgar however scrambled to his feet on his own and rushed to the door. After trying to yank it open he stared hard at the guard.
“What are you doing, man?” Edgar shouted. “Open this door!”
Scrambling for the keys, the guard seemed confused as he opened the door. It was hard not to hear the growing mob outside now as it was hard to ignore rocks pelting the side of the building. The guard was even more confused though when he did open the door and he was yanked out by the frantic Asborjn Thorvard.
“Go, your fellows need you! I will stay here with my father.” When the guard was gone, Asborjn turned on his father with a wild look. “I need to speak to her father! This wound, something is wrong.”
“Nonsense!” Edgar growled through clenched teeth, offering a sideways glance to Maria to signal that this need not be discussed in front of her.
Edgar's glance went disregarded by the prisoner though and she abruptly interjected into the exchange. “For how long do you think he can hide it? How long until it is he in this cell,” Maria interjected. There was a feral intensity to her eyes as she looked back to Edgar. “They will try herbs and remedies first, but when that fails they will try to poison and burn it out of him.” Her thick accent and foreign dialect marred the clarity of her words, but there was a coldness to them that was unmistakable.
“Enough of your tongue, creature!” Edgar yelled as he picked up the poker and charged the cage. It would not have as burning of a bite as it would have when he first entered but he could still stab her well enough. He lunged forward with it but was thrown off balance by his son grabbing him by the wrists.
“Father, no! I need this creature alive! Do not be so blind!”
Edgar pulled away but let his son take the weapon. “No one needs this filth! Perhaps we should just give it to the crowd! You are fine, my boy! This affliction does not have you, it is just paranoia. I have seen the change before, boy. Do you remember the tales I told you? A simple scratch will not…”
It is then that Asborjn exploded at his father like he had never before. “The damned thing did not scratch me! It bit me! I could feel the saliva seep in to the blasted wound!”
Maria's gaze did not waver as she slowly stepped away from the iron bars and back into the shadowed corner of her cell. “If he is lucky, they will hang him after. If not, they will burn him alive.”
Edgar moved as if to kick at the cage but Asborjn was there to stop him. With a final glare at the werewolf, Edgar looked up at his son and sighed. Asborjn was a young man now and no longer a child. Despite wanting to coddle him the way his mother no longer could, Edgar knew he had to step down this time.
“Very well, Asborjn. Just do not let her touch you, my son.”
Asborjn did not reply though but instead turned around to face the werewolf. He could not let his father see the fear in his eyes. It was probably not a good idea to let this creature see it either but he figured that she could just as easily smell it in his sweat.
With what might be considered a final, pleading look at his son, Edgar Thorvard sighed and turned to leave that he may better assist in calming the growing mob outside.

The vegetable cart lurched from side to side in a lulling movement. It had not taken long for Sansa to fall asleep. An elderly couple had seen the poor travel-worn woman walking alongside the road. Apostol and Mirela could not leave her behind and offered Sansa a ride to Wulfhaven. In the back of the wooden wagon, the young woman’s head bobbed from side to side along with the motion of the cart.
“She is an absolute doll,” Mirela exclaimed in a quiet tone as to not wake the sleeping woman. The white-haired lady smiled at her husband with that smile he knew all too well. Apostol’s face grew stern and defiant.
“We’ll not be keepin’ ‘er. Don’ even know where she be from, Mirela,” the elderly man said around the piece of wheat dangling from his withered lips. He turned his hazel eyes away from the woman at his side and shook his head again. Staring at his wife for too long got the woman what she wanted almost every single time. But this time, Apostol was not having it, the damned woman. He loved her far too much and for the last forty years, but this was going far too far.
“She is all alone and without anyone to care for her. The poor thing was half-starved when we picked her up. Can we not do anything for her at least,” Mirela pleaded with the man in the same whispered tone she used before.
“We already done what we can for ‘er. No more. She got bread an’ she got water now. More than she had ‘fore we came alon’,” Apostol stated, his face growing into a scowl. He wanted to move on from this topic. The whole way his wife had been commenting on the scenery, or that animal, or that traveller. Why couldn’t the woman just go back to talking about trivial topics instead of idiotic topics. It was dangerous enough to pick up someone on the side of the road without knowing who they were. Apostol was not about to go around fostering or adopting random maids walking on their own towards Wulfhaven.
Sansa’s eyes began to open as the voices of the elderly couple permeated her subconscious.
“But she’s just a chi—”
“Mirela. She be not a child. Tha’ woman in the back could be a noble or’a werewolf or’a gods know wha’ else, some kind of terror jus’ waitin’ for us to trus’ it. I no’ abou’ to go an’ risk the life o’my wife jus’ so we can feed one more mouth than we can ‘fford.”
“Apostol—”
“There be no more talk o’this, no more, woman.” Apostol spat at the ground, leaning over in his hard wooden seat with the reins held in his work-worn hands.
Sansa’s ears had finally opened to the world and she had caught the end of the couple’s conversation. It had hurt. The woman had been so nice to her and had given her food for the journey to Wulfhaven. Sansa placed a hand on the edge of the cart and timidly looked over her shoulder to look at Apostol and Mirela. The woman was hanging her head in a sorrowful manner, chastised by her own husband for her girlish dreams. The man was staring straight forward towards the open road trying his hardest to not feel bad for his words.
Gathering up her things, Sansa slung her satchel over her shoulder and waited for an opportune moment to hop from the moving cart. They don’t want me here, the young woman thought to herself with dismay. Sansa almost felt tears well up in her brown eyes but the lack of water prevented them from falling down her fair cheeks.
The ground was hard when Sansa’s knees hit the earth after jumping from the cart. Her hands stung as well from the rocks littered along the road. But, she made not a single sound in case the old woman looked back and saw that Sansa was gone. They would turn around if Mirela did see her abandoning them, or maybe her husband would just keep driving off without her. He never did like the idea of taking Sansa along with them on their travels.
A nearby tree provided refuge from sight as the cart continued to lumber away in the distance. Sansa sat beneath its shade and had lost time while reading her only book. By then, the girl had read it cover to cover over and over again. All the words were memorized, even the ones she did not understand.
“Well, well, well,” a male voice said above her as the sun was blocked from her book’s pages by a shadow. “You know, I am not the smartest man in my family or my town but I am certain that a woman traveling alone is not the safest of choices, m’dear.”
Sansa’s eyes looked up to the man but not a single detail could be garnered. The sun made her squint and nothing more than the outline of him could be seen while the stranger sat atop his horse. Sansa opened her mouth to say something but was interrupted before sound came forth.
“I do not need an introduction,” the man stated while folding his hands over the horn of his saddle, reins in hand. A grin was splayed across his weather-beaten face but Sansa could not see it.
“I—” Sansa started out.
“Now, you have two choices to make here. You can either sit beneath this tree for whatever reason, reading your book like you are now, or you can come with me to Wulfhaven and come be my wife,” the man stated rather bluntly. Sansa was taken aback and awestruck for a moment. Never before had a man simply approached her and proposed a life-long marriage to himself.
“You looked shocked and a little appalled. I can honestly say that I am a little hurt by that expression ... my Cosmina.” The man’s grin only grew wider and more devilish; a grin that many women had fallen in love with before on sight. And yet, for some reason, the man had never taken them as lovers nor wives.
It took Sansa a moment to realize who was sitting in that saddle above her. When the memory hit her full on forced, she stood up and the book that had been placed in her lap slid to the ground with a soft thump. Placing a hand over her eyes, Sansa was able to see the man for who he truly was and smiled a familiar smile at him.
“Petre.”
“Did you miss me?”

---

The rest of the trail to Wulfhaven was full of laughter and tales from both Petre and Sansa. The man had even been so bold as to trail warm kisses up the side of the woman’s neck which made the auburn beauty blush. Not a single day had passed that the man forgot about her or did not think about Sansa. Memories of their limited days spent together beneath the sun on the fields surrounding Torholden had been some of the most treasured.
“Tell me you will marry me,” Petre said brushing the woman’s long hair away from her neck. The sunlight shimmered off of it in such a way that it almost seemed like spun copper.
Sansa laughed and held the reins more gently in her hands before she said, “And why would I ever marry a blacksmith’s son? Cosmina would never marry someone so low born.” It was a tease and one that made Petre laugh his throaty laugh. Such a sound sent a shudder down the woman’s spine and Sansa’s breath caught in her throat before a smile spread across her fair face.
“Yes. I am just a blacksmith’s son,” the man mused, “but by night? By night I am a knight in shining black armor inlaid with gold and silver with glittering gem—” Petre’s words were cut off as they neared an unknown building. The woman sitting in the saddle in front of him was waiting for the rest of his sentence but had paused, too, in thought at the spectacle.
“What do you think is going on, Petre,” Sansa asked in a worried tone.
“I don’t know and I don’t think we should stick around to s—Sansa! Get back here,” Petre said while attempting to make a grab at the woman’s skirts. It seemed that her curiosity still got the better of her wit. Chuckling to himself, Petre followed after his betrothed on horse, forcing the crowd to part.
Sansa weaved through the crowd and stopped near a man. She turned to him and simply asked, “What is going on?” The unknown man noticed her accent and way of speech. He spat a black glob of mucus on the ground at her feet. Sansa lurched backward to avoid it and bump into someone. A yell came forth from the crowd and more bodies began to press around the woman.
“Petre!” Sansa called out before she was lost in a sea of bodies with the earth pressing against her face.

Walter stood in front of the prison, trying to hold back the crowd of people shouting for the execution of the werewolf. He shouted to the masses, "The werewolf is under control, please go to your homes and lock your doors until it's safe!" He received a few angered shouts, and someone mentioned his brother and his father. That was an underhanded move, but it was true. His father and brother were killed by a werewolf breach a few years back, and they'd killed it that time. Why not this time? Walter didn't much care for this werewolf's death quite as much as the last because his family wasn't involved, but he wondered why they'd kept this one alive. He couldn't help but wonder why this one got special privileges. Of course, this was the first one that he knew of that hadn't died in the initial breach. Another shout rang out, and some mud passed over his head that someone had thrown.

"Please calm down, and go back to your homes!" He shouted again, along with another guard down the row. There were four out there, but another came from inside making the group five. Another bit of mud landed on Walter's boot, and he let out another shout in tandem with another guard. If he joined in when another guard shouted, it made them a bit louder.

Rough waves crashed against the side of the boat and a steady downpour of rain had soaked them through to the bone. A chill and settled down in his core and the toil of the boat had caused him to hurl up his meager breakfast, leaving the bitter taste of vomit in his mouth and a horrible dry scratch in his throat. With the sky overcast with thick grey clouds the mid-morning light was barely enough to see by and they had been navigating blindly for over ten minutes, struggling to find their way back to the estuary that would see them safely out of the stormy waters. Of the five people in the boat he was the youngest; around him were his father, older brother and two other grizzled villagers holding tightly onto nets dragged to and fro. It was his first time out to sea. The closet he had ever come was floating a raft across a lake in the summer, and even that had filled him with a fear so total that he had burst into tears half way across. For a year after his brother had threatened to tell the other children in the village what a coward he was, though he never did.

Dorin had never been sure what to make of that. Whilst Vasile had not told the other children he had told their father, and Teodore had been so disappointed that Dorin had run away into the woods alone. Teodore was a widower and Vasile was the fruit of another woman's womb; whilst he had never been a cruel brother had constantly sought out his fathers affection, afraid that Dorin and his foreign mother would somehow steal him away forever. It stung all the more than Teodore never acted to change this even when his wife begged and pleaded. It stung, then, when Teodore did not come to find him in the forest. Tired and hungry he had eventually returned alone, head hung low and unable to hold back a steady stream of tears that only earned him more contempt. His mothers sympathy did little to repair the damage that had been done; she had not had the courage to stand up to Teodore, after all. Dorin had been alone.

It was for that reason that he now huddled at the back of the fishing boat, shivering violently and biting hard on his cheek to keep from chucking up his stomach for a second time. The rain had thickened and now they seemed surrounded by a grey haze broken only by the white spray of waves breaking over the ships bow. The bitter taste of salt stained his lips and made his eyes water. He was glad for the rain then; if they thought he was cowering at the back of the boat crying, all his hard work would have been lost. It had taken months for him to convince his father that he could handle the day at sea, that he would become a fisherman just like he and Vasile. He could afford no slip-ups.

"Dorin!" The voice was Vasile's. "Co'e'n'elp me wi'h th'net!" The ferocious battering the weather was giving them all but drowned out the words, and much of Dorin's strength, but he nodded and scrambled towards the front of the boat anyway. Drenched through as he was, it took a few seconds to work any warmth into his fingers and even then they felt stiff and ungainly on the coarse weave of the net. They began to pull as one, struggling hard against the pull of the tides and the weight of whatever their net had snared. "Har'er damn i'!" he shouted again, accent thick in his frustration.

"I'm trying!" Dorin tried to reply, but his voice was quiet and lost to the noise around them. He gave up and focused on trying to haul the net into the boat inch by inch, arms screaming with agony after only a minute or two. Little more than a child, Dorin was simply not strong enough to be of much help to Vasile. Teodore's voice boomed.

"Ou'a way, Dorin!"

Panicked that he had ruined everything, Dorin scuffled backwards as fast as he could and made a space for his father to take. His back hit something hard. There was a shout, one filled with fear and surprise. Dorin turned, wide-eyed and with his mouth agape as he watched Vasile tip over the edge of the boat. His older brother stretched out a hand but Dorin simply sat, dumb-struck as his arms began to wheel in the air for purchase and then he was gone, plummeting into the water. A mad scramble began, people pushing Dorin out of the way and hurling limbs and nets towards the drowning boy. Vasile's arms flailed above the surface for a few moments whilst wave after wave crashed over his head.

Frightened screams ripped through a gasp as his head broke the surface for the last time.

---

Dorin awoke with a start to find himself laying in a puddle of water at least an inch deep. Groggy and disorientated he tried to push away the memories unearthed by his dream and struggled to recall where he was. Crina and Doina were both curled up against his body, shivering in their sleep and as pale a white as he had ever seen. Unconsciously he drew them both closer to his body as his whereabouts slowly returned to him. During the night the wind had blown away the leaves stacked atop his shelter and the rain had poured freely through the branches to drench them thoroughly. Even without that the storm had been so heavy that their shelter now appeared to be built in the midst of a fledgling stream carrying dirt and leaves into the brush. Even the birds refused to sing this morning; as like they were too cold and miserable on such a dreary day.

Dorin unfurled himself from the tangle of limbs and stood, stretching the stiffness from his limbs and grimacing at the way his wet clothes stuck to his cold, clammy skin. The horses were a few meters away drinking from the stream, though they too shivered in the cold breeze. He made the decision to get them moving as soon as possible; no doubt they would all be ill soon anyway. If the horses began to fall sick it would add days to their journey. If this weather kept up they might even be forced to turn back. He simply couldn't do that. Not now. He woke Crina and Doina softly, and bid Doina to go feed the horses. Crina, on the other hand, refused to stir.

"Crina, get up damn it!" he snapped.

"Wha's th' rush, eh?" he drawled, voice heavy with sleep. She didn't even open her eyes to look at him.

"If we don't get moving we're all like to catch hypothermia. It's for the best." He was trying to be patient. Doina would hear if he raised his voice and he had hoped this journey could be a fresh start for them; a chance to do over their - his - mistakes and make a better life for each of them. He knew that Crina would ruin it, but so soon?

"As'f you c're," she replied and waved a hand towards him in an effort to shoo him. He grabbed her hand and squeezed tightly on her fingers. She opened her eyes with a mixture of hurt and shock. He let go of her hand and cast his eyes down, defeated. When he looked at her again her eyes were still locked on him, blazing with anger. "Bastard." She enunciated it as he would, to make sure he could not misunderstand. He opened his mouth to respond but only a dry rasp came out; he could not argue with her. Dorin ran a hand through his hair with a weary heart; his hands felt heavy as lead and the light had seemed to fade around him all at once. Whatever fresh hopes the morning had held had been crushed by the world already.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into the wind.

"Y'liar! You ca'nae feel remorse, bastar'," she spat. Dorin glanced up at her quickly, struck by her cruel words. It was the ring of truth in them that stung him, that Doina truly believed what she said on some level.

"How can you say that?" He was aware of how pathetic he sounded, stranded somewhere between pain and shock.

"If y'cared 'bout us a'll you'd stop fuckin' u' your daugh'er wi'h your drink an' misery!" She shouted. He glanced over his shoulder, and saw Doina looking towards them with wide eyes. He tried to speak, but Doina cut over him. "Your nae bu' a pi-"

"Shut up!" Dorin shouted. this time the anger in his voice was loud enough to silence her, and every other sound in the forest. He lowered his voice, and something in the soft anger of it finally struck dumb his wife. "I swear on my mothers honour if you raise your voice before our daughter again, I will strangle you were you sit."

---

The next hour passed slowly. The tension between himself and Crina was palpable and Doina simply sat with her eyes downcast, unable or unwilling to meet either his or her mothers eyes for the entire length of time. Once the horses had got moving they had picked up some warmth and vigor again and they had begun making good time despite the waterlogged mud they squelched through. The riders on the other hand still shook violently in their sodden garments and none of them had regained any colour to their skin. Dorin had begun to worry; even about Crina, whose lips had turned a swollen blue. They stopped so Crina could pass her stool.

"Da', why d'you an ma' shout a' eacho'her all th' time?" Doina had shifted her weight in the saddle to peer into his eyes. There was a profound sadness in him that shredded his heart, for he knew it all belonged to him.

"We're just scared, floare." The words came out as a whisper. Funny that his child should find more courage to face the truth than he. "Your mother has never been beyond Marga before and I..." he trailed off, and stared into Doina's eyes for a long time.

"D'you love Ma'?" He had expected to see pleading there, but what he saw was a doubt that poked a thousand holes through his defences.

"Yes," he answered in a cracked voice. If it was the truth he could not say. The emotions he felt for Crina were so twisted and ruined that he could not find the place where hate ended and love began. He knew that she loved him though, for all his flaws and mistakes. He let out a sigh that deflated him utterly. "We both love you, floare. Don't you ever forget that," he said, voice stronger this time. Doina smiled shyly and stuck out her tongue.

"You'er so soppy!"

He laughed. It was his first free laugh in days, and it sounded strangely out of place in the shade of the forest. He laughed then to spite the darkness and Doina joined him, until the pair of them were holding their sides and laughing simply because they could see no way not to. When Crina returned from the bushes she stared at them for a long time in morbid silence. They paused long enough for their cheeks to turn red before bursting into fits again, doubling over to gasp for breath. Doina, so short of breath from her giggling, doubled over so hard she toppled from her saddle and landed in the mud with a splash. That set even Crina to laughing, a tears streaked her dirty face as she knelt beside Doina and brushed the mud from her nose. Between them they tidied her up and got her seated on her horse again. As Crina made to move away Dorin caught her wrist and tugged her back to plant a soft kiss on the corner of her mouth. They shared a shy smile for a fleeting second.

"Ew! Gross!"

---

Wulfhaven.

It was not the first time he had seen the large stone walls of the town, but even so the scale of them seemed far greater than what he recalled. Such things were so rare in these lands that they deserved to be looked on in awe, and all three of the Voiena's paid it their due diligence. In their silence they began to hear the sounds of commotion from the town. They approached cautiously, and Dorin unconsciously slid his hand around the pommel of his sword. Crina and Doina were still struggling to comprehend the sheer size of Wulfhaven and probably saw nothing strange in the noise within its walls.

"Who goes t'ere?!" The voice was shouted from the top of the walls.

"Townsfolk from Marga! We're looking to buy salt at market!"

"Marke' is close' a'for the minu'e, stranger. You ge' t' wa'ch a hangin' instea'!"

Dorin frowned. The guard waved them through. It was rare that he had heard of a hanging in Wulfhaven, especially one big enough to shut down the market in the middle of the day. A sliver of worry crept into Dorin, and he bid Crina and Doina to take the horses to the Inn stables whilst he went to investigate what was happening in the town. Caution still gripping him firm, Dorin buckled his sword-belt around his waist before he trudged off towards the the noise.

A large mob had gathered outside the prison building, the mass of shouting people pressing in against its walls. He could make out the polished helms of the guards wedged between the crowd and the flagstone jailhouse. A large number of the crowd were hurling abuse and a good few of them were throwing clumps of mud. Dorin had a strong sense of unease; it felt like a situation that could only be satiated with blood. As he moved through the edges of the crowd he began to pick up the details of what had happened. They had a werewolf in a call. A breach last night had cost the town a handful of residents, and they demanded their repayment. Dorin could find no place to disagree with them, though it was rare that anyone got to speak to a real beast. He spat on the ground at his feet and threaded his way further into the crowd. It was a mistake. The throng began to press around him as more people joined in, all pressing to get to the front and fight their case for entry. Struggling to hold his feet on the slickness of the mud beneath his feet, Dorin resorted to pushing his way back out. Things were beginning to get out of hand. As he neared the edge of the crowd he saw a woman flail to the ground beneath the press of the mob. Dorin bit his cheek in exasperation but pushed in her direction anyway. She was laying face-down in the mud when he reached her, and he slid an arm beneath her pit and hauled her roughly to her feet, using his spare hand to clear a path hastily through the crowd.

When they neared the edge he released her arm and spared her a glance. It was hard to tell with her face so smeared with grime, but she had a young face and dark hair. Her clothes were of fine quality too, and her eyes were clear and intelligent. Hard to figure what she business she had in such a crowd. He fixed her with a curious look.

"Dorin," he introduced himself. "You all right, lady?"

Wulfhaven

---

"Look at them. Those fools. Leaving the town unguarded," Stanislaus spat on the ground. He and Aubriano stood near Stanislaus' shop, a few hundred feet away from the angry mob and the captured feral. Stanislaus looked at the mob with anger as cleaned the ground. He was the only one in Wulfhaven who bothered to keep the surroundings of his shop this clean. Aubriano moved out of his way quickly. Getting in the way of the big G'aelian was not his agenda, or on anyone else's. Aubriano walked back into the shop and sat down in the corner. He removed his purse, a black piece of cloth he kept hidden in his jacket. He counted the coins and sighed as he failed to get past four. Three coins... Two square meals...

"When the feral's remaining friends decide to join the party, it will quite the sight" spoke Aubriano as he helped himself to a piece of Alderian Seff, a round juicy fruit, tasty and stomach filling. "I don't see myself distracted enough to let have that for free," spoke the miser. Aubriano tossed a coin through the window of the shop towards Stanislaus and took another bite. Should people care about some feral so much that they would be out with sticks and shovels and what not? Should people be angry enough that they leave the town unguarded while they fight over the fate of the feral who is destined to be killed? Definitely. The people hated these creature with so much heart that it scared Aubriano just to mention a werewolf. But he wanted to know something and only a man like Stanislaus would remain calm when asked the question.

"Why?" asked Aubriano, curiosity dripping from his mouth. He hadn't bothered/was scared to ask this question but this seemed like to be either the best time to ask or the worst. Aubriano took his chances. Stanislaus stopped sweeping the ground and looked at Aubriano intensely. "Children should not concern themselves with the myths and legends of old." Aubriano stood up, finished eating the Seff and walked outside the shop where he had worked for the last three days. He never worked at one place for long for he feared the monotony. He would ask tomorrow to be relieved of his duties as the gatherer of supplies and insulter of customers.

He offered a weak smile to Stanislaus and shifted his view to the castle of sorts. The people were still there. The werewolves had been defeated hours ago but still people were interested in knowing the fate of last one. The one they managed to capture. The attack had really rattled the feathers of the happy little community and now they wanted to taste sweet revenge. Unfortunately, the dumb masses thought killing was the best form to revenge. Aubriano laughed at how far from the truth it was.

"It began one fateful day many years ago," began Stanislaus surprising Aubriano. He composed himself and got ready to know why the town was called 'Wolf haven'.

---

Many Years Ago
King Artemus paced along walls of his room. His mind raced, thinking about all the possibilities. Could they- No. But maybe- Oh god... But then I'll- No not good enough... "Calm down," spoke a gentle voice, filled with love for the one it was directed towards, near the door. The woman to whom the voice belonged walked inside and placed a gentle kiss on the stubble of the man she was married to.

"My Queen, now is not the type to be calm. Now is the time to be..." The king realized what he just said and broke into a laugh. The queen smiled as she moved herself to the bed and sat down. The king looked at her and her swollen abdomen. "Should you be moving this late while you are carrying?" If his concern for the events that were transpiring was a water droplet, then his concern for his queen and their child was no less than an ocean. He was fifty and feared his seed wasn't strong enough to bear him children but his wife, his love and life, was going to prove the naysayers wrong. He smiled at her as she spoke, "Strong mother, strong child"

The day stretched into endlessness as evening grew near. Artemus sat on throne and looked at the people gathered there, waiting. The hall was spacious, for a castle hall. Adorned with paintings and heads of animals, the hall was truly one to be envied about. Artemus wondered what was taking them so long. What is taking them so long? Should they be travelling th-

The alarm broke Artemus' train of thought. But he wasn't angry. He stood up and walked towards the door to embrace them...

---

Many more years ago

Two brothers relaxed on a small hill on soft grass. The sun was going home, going back to sleep ready to let the moon rule the roost for a while. A big red sun always amazed the younger of the two brothers while the bigger brother was there merely to kill his brother once nightfall hit. "About to be time soon brother," the younger one spoke and smiled. His death was inevitable but he did not care. "True Jim," spoke his brother, showing a brave face. But would he really do it?

As the sun set down, the smaller brother's teeth grew, his face became angrier, his body thinner and his nail became fangs. His brother sighed and stood and the smaller one followed suit. "As King Vesla, ruler the city of Franz, I declare you a threat to us lives," spoke Vesla to prince Schafer. His brother was still in control, just barely. "Should have killed me when I could have stood down," spoke the prince.
"Never" Schafer gave a weak smile and spoke his last words as he a sane, sentient human.
"Life sure is fun, while it lasts." "It sure is"

The transformation was complete. The feral creature attacked Vesla instantly, so nearly catching him offguard. He blocked the deadly fangs with his shield and slashed hard at the beast who dodged it easily. The beast roared with angry and swiped again, this time meeting the fuller of the blade. "Wile creature, for the sake of my brother I shall kill you!" He charged at the creature who effortlessly swiped Vesla aside. Vesla flew a meters and landed on his behind, sword and shield landing a few feet away. The creature looked at the fallen man; the fallen man trying desperately to get up but his legs not wishing to be thrown like that again. The feral waited for the king to get up before punching him straight in the stomach. Vesla spat blood as he fell on his knees. As he looked through his blurred vision at his former brother a few more ferals joined Scafer. "What..." Words too, like hi legs, did not wish to be on his side for the fear of getting murdered.

The feral prince laughed, "Your blindness, your misunderstanding of the werewolves has gotten to you this time."
The king was stunned. "Cannot be. Ferals are but animals." The other werewolves looked at the king angrily but Schafer stopped them. "Your death saddens me. More than my death saddened you. You shall be punished for looking down upon us werewolves. You shall witness the death of your foolish rules. You shall see your kingdom become a place where all can live free. A haven for man and wolf alike. And I shall call it Wulfhaven"

Vesla laughed as hard as he could and spoke with an authoritative voice, "Foolish child. I do not hate the ferals because they are what they are. I hate them because they will back stab. Once they back stab you, you will understand." Schafer picked up Vesla's sword and drove it through Vesla. "We'll see about that"

Schafer spoke to his comrades, "Now we must find his son so we have a puppet." He grinned...

“Sansa! Sansa! Sansa!” Petre called out to the throng of gathered denizens and foreigners alike. Panic struck his chest when she had been drug down into the sea of bodies where his eyes could no longer see her. Sansa was a creature of the small towns and surrounding countries. Petre should have known better than to let her loose in the city, even if for only those few precious seconds.
The man burst through the crowd on horse back, not caring if a few people had been caught beneath his steed’s hooves. Their lives were nothing compared to the life of the one Petre loved with every beat of his heart. The crowd surged at Petre’s behavior, and the man was unhorsed with a scream from the creature. The destrier rolled onto its side then stood once more on all four feet before the horse bolted.
Petre was left standing in an ever more angry crowd.

Feet trampled on Sansa’s back which made her cry out in pain. Her hands came up to cover the back of her head instinctively. There came a harsh tug beneath her arm and Sansa opened her eyes to see she was standing on her own two feet. Mud had caked alongside the fair maid’s face and clung to her auburn hair in dark clumps. The dress which Sansa wore for her travel was now beyond repair and aptly ruined.
Her savior introduced himself, and Sansa lowered her gaze from his face in a modest bow of her head. “Thank you, kindly m’lord,” the timid woman spoke to him in a voice that most likely had not be registered over the yelling, screaming, and wailing of the nearby rioters.
“I—” she began to Dorin.
“Sansa,” a voice called out to her left and Sansa saw that it was Petre. Her eyes lit up and she waited there for him to come to her. In a few, long, strides of the man’s powerful legs, Petre had his hands wrapped around Sansa’s arms.
“Are you alright,” Petre spoke in a gentle voice before noticing the older man in Sansa’s company. Protectively, he drew Sansa in close to him, encompassing the woman in his arms.
“Sansa, who is this man?” Petre was not taking kindly to another man being in the company of his betrothed and it showed in his smoke-colored eyes. Sansa shifted her head and peered at Dorin with her deep brown eyes. Her brow knit together, raised and humbled toward him.

(Post written by DestroytheOrcs and  Prose)

For a few moments Edgar did not want to walk out that door. He could hear the crowd rumbling on the other side and could practically smell the sweat of their bodies pressed together. Many times in the past Edgar Thorvard had been the calming voice in conflicts and the people were apt to listen to him but he never had to calm a crowd that was out for blood. He even stepped aside to let another guard go through before him.
“Alright Magistrate,” Edgar said as he slapped himself gently on the the face. “You’re the one in control. The beast will be dead soon enough.”
With a deep breath and a heavy sigh, Magistrate Edgar Thorvard walked out of the building and confidently made his way to the front of the thronging crowd. He lifted his arms over his head and patted his hands in the air to get the head line’s attention as well as a few yelpers in the back. His dark eyes scanned a sea of faces full of anger and terror.
“Please, please! Calm down just for a moment!” Edgar requested of them all.
Dirty faces stared at the magistrate, pressed together so tightly that it seemed they were all one entity; one sea of bodies. A great range of denizens grew even more heated when the man had appeared. They threw out insults and taunts for Edgar Thorvard to bring out the werewolf. 
“Brin’ out th’fuckin’ beast! Chop er’ ‘ead off, y’fool!” a voice from the crowd cried out above all the others. It had been the butcher and the giant of a man was whirling his still-bloody meat cleaver over his balding head. “I can fuckin’ do it m’self,” he yelled out which earned the burly man a collaborative shout of the mass as reward. 
“Hang her,” Wulfhaven began to chant to the magistrate. Fists were raised into the air along with pitch forks and makeshift clubs carved hastily from wood. Children’s wails filled the air with all the confusion rumbling around their ears but their mothers ignored their cries to chant along with the others. 
A rotten tomato flew through the air and landed a hair’s width away from the magistrate’s foot. The guardsmen near were forced to press back the front line of mixed bodies, throwing some to the ground.
The city's chant only grew more loud.
"Hang her! Hang her!"
“Yes! You are right! We should hang her!” Edgar yelled back in a surprisingly booming voice. He was short but very round and those lungs held a lot of air that gave the normally timid man a bellowing voice when he needed it. “But remember that we cannot walk with our heads in the maw of the wolf!” He hoped that the old Wulfhaven proverb about discarding dangerous information would work to quiet them at least long enough to let him get in more than a sentence edgewise.
Quiet began to spread through the crowd as the magistrate's voice sounded over the citizens of Wulfhaven. It had begun at the front and worked its way to those hovering on the edge of the rioting crowd. But not all had stopped their cheering and demands of revenge. Those individuals were the ones whom had been slighted the most by the vile and abominable creatures named werewolves. It were those select few people that would never give up the chance to avenge those whom had been lost. Their bloodlust was woven far too deep into their hearts and that rage was fueled by the captured she-bitch hidden inside.
"Give us 'er head!"
"Blood for blood!"
“The beast should bleed but would you have it bleed meaningless blood? Savage though it may be it can speak and it can tell us from where it came and how many and how close the others are.” Edgar paused to gauge their reaction and then he smiled.
“Do you not see,” he smugly asked. “In coming here—In daring to attack Wulfhaven and her people, these monsters have damned themselves!” 
He ended in a roar that had his fist pumping in to the air. A lot of things could be said about the plumped Edgar Thorvard but he knew how to talk.
People in the tense gathering began to look around to each other and mumble in hushed conversation. They had spared Edgar a moment in time to make his argument but now it was time for them all to decide.
"He's right," Zachariah said while stepping up on a cabbage cart so that all could see him too. "If we can get information on where the pack is making their lair, then we can strike them at their heart and remove the werewolf threat forever. Mothers will no longer lose sons and daughters. Men, you will no longer lose your wives," he added. Zachariah was a well known and respected blacksmith throughout the community. He was a man that could inspire others to heed his advice. Kindness ruled his heart and charity had been offered by Zachariah more than a dozen times for those less fortunate. 
Hearing the black smith's voice in tune with Edgar Thorvard's made the crowd more pliant and willing to listen due to their love of the man speaking. There came more hushed whispers which sent the crown buzzing with voices without any singular standing out from the din of noise. Heads were beginning to nod and understanding was being found. 
Zachariah chose to speak again but this time to the magistrate. 
"After you get what you want from the werewolf, if you do not give her to the people, it will be your blood they demand next," the blacksmith warned ominously with a dark tone to his voice.