WarThrone: Legend of the Dark Wolf

Hunting the Hunters

Chapter III: Avenger of the Nameless

An epic scene, which shall be serve as a dark omen for the Coming Ages, could be witnessed that day — when the Dark Wolf reached the Pale Elven slavers that he was hunting for the last seven days, on the cold and unforgiving tundra of the brutal Northern Dreadlands.

A mighty barbarian warrior, towering over the cruel Orcish slave-warriors sent by their Pale Elven masters, carved a swathe of destruction across the enemy ranks, riding across the steppe on a horse, racing against their wargs, as well as the unciorns which drove the wargs forward.

He swore to avenge the fallen tribes of Men nearby.

For him, as with many of the Barbarian Peoples who inhabited the Dreadlands, there could be no compromise.

Especially not with those cursed Elves and their Orcish thralls!

He swung his massive sword from atop his trusty steed, resembling more a storm of steel and muscle, than a mere mortal. His eyes frenzied with righteous vengeful fury.

Heads and arms were sundered with each swing. Beast. Man. Elf or Orc.

Whatever they sent against him, cannot stop his rampage across their ranks.

The one hundred slavers he hunted, slowly became fifty by now — while he sustained a few wounds — although the one on the back will remain as a scar — if he doesn’t find a Healer in time.

“ONE MAN?!” he roared taunting them, as he was panting, “JUST… ONE?!”

Some Orcs — mostly Snow Goblins — broke rank, retreating back to imagined safety — only to be struck from afar by powerful spells sung by their Pale Elven sorcerous masters.

Pale Orcs however, followed by fierce Elven Blademasters, were slowly starting to engulf him, as they encircled him — for they were not as weak as the initial Snow Goblin skirmishers. Lunging towards him, he had to swing his blade one at a time, each blow must be a mortal one, for him to conserve his strength enough, for he has grown tired.

Tired of the brutal life of Men, fighting against Destiny.

BUT DESTINY MUST BE CLAIMED!

His mind and body storming with renewed purpose and vigor, he grabbed a Pale Orc by its hand and threw it against another Pale Orc rider, as he slew the former’s warg with a single blow of his mighty sword — cleaving its head from its body.

There were still a lot of them, and he was still alone.

And how longer will his Will last?

He took a potion from his belt, and drank it.

Just one more time…

He thought.

He dropped his sword, as his body started quivering…

“No…” he panted.

As soon as his flesh started steaming, limbs slowly growing, as the horse’s spine is broken under his weight.

He started laughing maniacally. The Pale Orcs just stood there, looking at each other or at their equally stupefied Pale Elven masters.

Hair grew, as he started feasting on the horse in bloodthirsty fervor — devouring it in a beastly way — as his face suddenly grew into a wolf’s muzzle. He howled, a cry between a man’s wrathful roar and a wolf’s triumphant howl, lunging towards them — slowly becoming a man-wolf, running on all fours.

He tore their ranks asunder, as he exponentially grew in size, strength, speed, agility and fury. His claws by now ripped apart the enemy’s lighter defenses.

It sounded like deranged human laughter was somehow mixed with the barking of a rabid wolf.

Thoughts became instincts.

There was no thinking.

There was no I.

Strike. Evade. Lunge.

Snarl. Strike. Strike. Strike. Jump.

Strike. Leap.

Turn back.

Strike.

A bloodthirsty creature was stroming across the tundra. The remaining fifty became seven survivors. Most heavily maimed. Most of them died in the few days after the incident.

A dark legend was written that day. And a darker one started.

The Dark Wolf scourged the Northern Dreadlands, slaying many Elves and Orcs alike. Uncofirmed sightings of him were reported down south, even! Some whisper, this man-beast lost his mind away to his frenzy. Others claim that he took control over a powerful tribe of dissident Snow Goblins, seeking a powerful Man to lead them against their Pale Elven masters.

Whatever is true…

The fulfillment of Doom of the Pale Elves has just begun.

Epilogue: White Tribe, Black Saviour

“We must follow the Master!” the old and wizened Snow Goblin Matriarch croaked.

“We’ll lose many, Grandmother,” her grandson, the great warlord Urbolg, bellowed as he grabbed her by the shoulder.

“Insolent rat!” she screamed, as she slapped him in front of the entire Tribe.

“Insolent rat! Insolent rat!” her favourite daugters and granddaughters started chirping like servant birds.

“Never question Mother again!” her youngest daughter stepped in, the Heiress of the Tribe, with her finger raised defiantly, as if she was threatening the warlord himself.

Urbolg was clearly displeased, although he didn’t show it. He just quietly went back to his place at the long-table.

“Only he can save our ailing Tribe, my sons and daughters, both grand and those not so grand,” the Goblin Matriarch chuckled, “And only he! He alone strikes fear in the hearts of our enemies!”

“Imagine the sons and daughters he could give me!”

The Tribe started roaring and hissing histerically, cheering their crazed Matriarch, as they plot revenge against their former Overlords.

“He has been prophecized as their Doom — by the oldest Oracles of the accursed Pale Elves!”, spitting, as she pronounced their name, many in the Tribe following suit.

“Which means he is the one we have expected since the first of our kind. He is the realization of our fallen kin’s hopes and dreams, as they died underneath their accursed whips and blades!” And she spat again. The entire tribe followed suit. Except Urbolg.

He was obviously somewhere in his own head.

And Grandmother notices all…

This short story belongs to the imagined WarThrone Multiverse, a setting of collaborative epic fiction told through various potential mediums — such as short storys (just like this one), comic books, books and tabletop games. This setting, as well as the potential tabletop game brand, essentially belong to the author — as they are deeply connected with his academic work, the work of historiosophy, just like — for an example — Tolkien’s work was based on his knowledge and study of philology.