Staggered waves of crimson conifers danced with the wind—countless wavering spikes, bristling with blood red needles. Small, feathered demons flitted about from perch-to-perch, their songs echoing throughout the taiga. There were no signs of civilization as far as the eye could see, as the forest stretched to the horizon and beyond in all directions.
Except for one: a small, crumbling tower of cracked marble bricks, rising from a small glade amidst the everreds. A streak of ivory amidst the carmine, still managing to loom over the surrounding trees, even in its derelict state.
Centuries ago, this was but one of many such spires—the "Vanguards", as they were called, placed in order to watch over the most untamed regions of the Isles, and to extend the reach of local warlords. Over the ages, however, its cohorts were slowly but surely consumed by the wilderness, leaving this last survivor to stand alone, one of the few remaining remnants of the Savage Ages which hadn't been assimilated and rewritten by Belos' regime.
"Not too much longer," said a man in a long leather jacket and a dark green single-shoulder cape, looking up at the tower. He spoke slowly, with a deliberate, almost measured cadence. In fact, everything he did seemed highly methodical. How he walked along the dirt. The way his eyes scanned the treeline for threats. Even the pendulum-like manner in which his chartreuse braid bobbed amidst the rest of his jet black hair.
Their companion grunted. A horned bovine head rested atop their powerful humanoid physique.
"It's pretty hot out here, huh?" He undid the top button on his undershirt. His companion gave him another grunt. "You're not much of a talker, are you?"
Between them, they dragged a pair of haggard figures. Burlap potato sacks covered their heads, while their wrists were bound behind their backs with thin cords that glistened like ropes of silver. A layer of dirt covered their black leather pants. Every so often, they tried to gain some sort of footing, only to be violently jerked back to their knees.
"Hey, now. We've been walking long enough for you to get the message. I don't like it any more than you do—I've had a rock in my boot for the last twenty minutes—but this is just how these things go." He pushed the one on the right back to their knees. "Big man asked us to bring you in, so that's what we're going to do. Can't have you running off after we went to so much effort to bust you out of Golden Boy's dungeons, now can we?"
He caught his left hand attempting to snake itself beneath his jacket. "Hey! Stop that!" he scolded, putting the rebellious limb back in its place. The fingers flexed in annoyance for a moment, before it relinquished itself back under his control.
They crossed into darkness, as the tower passed in front of the blazing sun. A sigh escaped his lips, as the dry heat quickly dissipated from his dark skin.
A final turn, as they stepped along the rough-hewn path through the trees. The tower loomed ominously ahead, its dark entryway open like a gaping mouth. He could feel countless pairs of eyes on him from all sides. Scouts patrolled the forest at all times, with most guarding the road around the tower. Nothing escaped the Wolves' notice in these woods.
One of these scouts stepped from beyond the treeline, brandishing a spear. "Hanson?"
"Yep." He pulled off one of his gloves to reveal a faded tattoo on the back of his right hand. "Back with the captives the boss wanted."
The scout nodded, then disappeared back into the wilderness.
Hanson and his companion dragged their captives into the building. The ground floor was completely abandoned, the few items of stone furniture scattered about the room, and long since eroded to the point that it was a task to figure out what they were even supposed to be. His eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness as he led them towards a staircase. The reinforced wooden trapdoor was held open by a rusted metal pole. Dim torchlight danced within the tunnel.
The Dire Wolves had found this tower during initial scouting missions, when they first set their sights on the Boiling Isles' imperial throne. As one of the longest-tenured members of the "Pack"—as some of the younger members liked to call it—he had been present during those early missions, but he didn't remember much of it. Just half-retained flashes, with brief moments of lucidity.
However, there was one memory which stuck with him, clear as day.
"Hanson! You're back!" a feminine voice called out, echoing off the masonry. He couldn't help but smile as he looked down the stairs. Dashing towards him, taking the steps two at a time, was the young woman he'd been mentoring for some months now.
"Catherine!" he answered, offering a short wave. He had found her hiding in a cave, scared and alone, and took her under his proverbial wing. She was running from something. He wasn't sure what, but whatever it was had truly shaken her. He would have been heartless to refuse. "How have you been?"
"Pretty good. I'm making friends with some of the new guys, but…" Her eyes dropped to the stairs, as she walked a few steps ahead of Hanson. "...I don't think most of them like me."
"Nah, they're just giving you a hard time 'cause you're still fresh meat," he assured her. "They'll come around soon enough. Believe me, the Wolves are pretty mellow nowadays. You should've seen what it was like back when I joined up." He quietly chuckled.
He blinked, and when he opened his eyes, he was at the bottom of the stairs. Catherine was staring at him with a concerned look on her face. His entire body felt… wrong, like a full-body itch resting too deep beneath his skin for him to scratch. "Did I do it again?"
"Yeah." She glanced towards his left hand.
Looking down, he noticed his hand clenched around a small stiletto. "Oops! Let's put this guy back." He quickly tucked the blade back into the sheathe hidden in his sleeve. "Remember, Catherine: don't play with knives."
Catherine didn't smile at his joke. "You're getting worse."
He shrugged his shoulders as he continued to drag his captives along the hard stone floors. "It comes and goes. You know how it is." His footsteps echoed loudly through the hall. At the end, an open doorway blazed with a welcoming orange light.
"I'm serious! I'm really worried about you."
Hanson sighed, stopping in his stride a few meters from the door. He put a hand on Catherine's shoulder, crouching slightly to look her in the eyes.
"Hey, I'm going to be fine. You know that he comes in waves. It'll get worse for a couple weeks, then I'll be back to normal for quite a while." He affectionately clapped her on the shoulder. "Now, I've gotta go talk to the Boss. Try not to get into too much trouble."
She silently watched as Hanson turned and walked into the amphitheater, her mind far from soothed. However, she knew that she couldn't do anything to change his mind. If there was one word to describe Hanson, it was stubborn.
A large semi-circular area sprawled out in front of him, with a small stage in the center, and watched from all sides by rows upon rows of chattering onlookers, donned in all manner of ramshackle armor and leathers. Opposite the door, a shadowy stage supported a ramshackle throne, flanked by over a dozen armed guards.
A large figure filled the chair: Zander Rex, the Dire Wolves' leader. Their Alpha.
Hanson and his bovine companion mounted the stage, pushing their captives to their knees. Zander gestured silently, and both hoods were torn from the prisoners' heads.
"Bria Nyte. Gavin Inadad." The Alpha's voice boomed through the amphitheater, silencing the crowd. It was cold and hard, like a knife against stone. "You have broken the Creed with your attempted assassination against the Emperor. Not only that, but your actions prevented us from accomplishing our mission in Latissa. What do you have to say for yourselves?"
Bria raised her head. Several cuts and large bruises covered her face. "What do you mean 'betrayed'? You're the one who paid us to go after him. If you want—"
"I gave no such orders. You both underwent the trials. You are both well aware of our honor code. We do not stage assassinations."
"If you want his throne, then why go through all of this crap to get it?" She snorted in annoyance. "Listen, some of your guys came to us and gave us a lot of money to kill him, so we—"
"Who?"
She blinked. "What?"
"Who paid you to kill the Emperor?"
"I don't know. Just some people in your armor and with your tattoos. One of them had the weird half-cape thing you give your favorite cronies."
A murmur ran through the crowd. Only the most tenured and accomplished Wolves were permitted a paludamentum. It took Hanson nearly 10 years to earn his, and even longer to recolor it.
Rex leaned forward. A clawed hand moved into the torchlight. "What color?"
Bria gave him a confused look. "Color?"
"What color was the cape?" He spoke slowly, deliberately emphasizing every word. His voice was low, more akin to a growl than speech.
"Red. They're all red, aren't they?" She looked around the chamber, her confidence beginning to wane. Only a handful of Wolves had a cape. All of them wore red, except for Hanson.
The crowd continued to quietly chatter amongst themselves as Zander silently pondered. His claws tapped against the wooden armrest of his throne. After a moment, he looked towards the other captive. His head was still lowered. He had hardly moved since being brought to the stage. "Gavin. You've been silent thus far. What can you add?"
He didn't respond, or even react.
Zander gestured to the bullman. They grabbed a handful of his messy gray hair and pulled his head up. Gavin's eyes stared sightlessly forward, his jaw limply hanging open. A thin trickle of blood ran from his left nostril.
The crowd collectively gasped. Gavin was dead.
Bria recoiled in shock, losing balance and falling over. "W-what happened to him? He was fine a minute ago!"
Hanson crouched down at Gavin's side. There were no visible wounds on his body. His eyes were still clear, but heavily bloodshot. The streak of blood running from his nostril was still wet. Glancing to the stage floor, he noticed a few dark splatters between the corpse's knees.
He had died on the stage. Whatever—or whoever—had killed him, they had managed to do it in the most brazen setting possible, without anyone noticing until after the deed was done.
"Judging by the nosebleed and the eyes," Hanson began, double-checking for any conspicuous wounds, "this was either poison or a psychic attack. Are there any healers or seers here?"
A few onlookers raised their hands. He gestured a couple over over. They quickly waded their way through the crowd, then climbed onto the stage to crouch next to Hanson. One summoned a dark blue spell circle. The other raised a crystalline pendant.
The healer moved their spell circle over Gavin's body. His blood vessels glowed dimly beneath his skin, as the magic scanned it for any toxins. After a few moments, they reported, "Nothing."
Opposite Hanson, the diviner's pendant began to glow. His eyes became unfocused, as his attention shifted to an unseen image.
"What do you see?"
Confusion overtook his face. "I… I don't know. It's just… green."
"Green?" Hanson's left hand felt itchy. He could feel the crowd shifting their eyes to his cloak.
"Yeah. Just a solid sheet of bright green. Really bright." He furrowed his brow. "It feels… angry? No, not angry, but…" His body started to shake. Sweat began to bead along his forehead. "It's strong. Too strong. I— I can't— It's—"
A droplet of red began to roll from his nose.
Without hesitation, Hanson reached out and ripped the pendant from around his neck. The thin cord strained before snapping, the light quickly fading from its core.
He gasped as the spell abruptly ended, falling to his hands and knees. He looked at Hanson with wide eyes, but he didn't think they were seeing him.
Placing a hand on his shoulder, Hanson said, "It's alright. We'll figure out who's doing this." He looked towards the healer. "Can you take them to the infirmary?"
The healer wordlessly lifted the rattled witch to their feet and slowly walked them towards the doors. Hanson rose and looked towards the Alpha, who was deep in thought on his throne.
"This is highly concerning," Rex stated. "However, this should not distract us from the matter at hand. Inadod may be dead, but Bria Nyte, you must still pay for your betrayal. The punishment for breaking the Creed is death. However, in light of these events, I shall be… lenient."
Her eyes were locked on Gavin's body, which was still slumped forward.
"If you pledge to help us track down whomever killed Gavin, I will allow you to prove your worth through Trial by Combat. Should you survive, you will reenter the Dire Wolves under strict probation. What do you say?"
She slowly looked towards the Alpha. Her orange eyes were flat, the usual warmth drained. She sneered. "Whoever did this is gonna pay!"
"Good. If that is all, this hearing is over. Everyone, back to your posts."
The crowd began to file out. As Hanson started to cut Bria free of her bonds, his companion lifted Gavin's body onto a shoulder and carried him towards the main doors. A guard appeared on the stage to escort Bria to her lodging.
Hanson turned to follow, but was cut off by the Alpha's voice. "Jackal. I would like to talk to you in private."
The plot thickens!
Also, sorry for this chapter taking a while. I moved to Uni shortly after the last one, and while I do have a big chapter in the work, I decided to put out this shorter one just to tide you guys over, and to introduce some of the major figures within the Dire Wolves.
