From the darkness and the nothing, there was numbing cold and pain. It was something, then even it faded and time passed softly.

Finally, after an age, there were sounds and cool pain but both were far away. The sounds faded but the pain remained and grew ever more.

It was like that for what seemed like forever and then the sounds returned. They became many voices, little more than sharp edged whispers. They mixed together, sounding like dead leaves of the winter oaks dancing above him.

He felt a hot wind wash over him, chasing away the cold.

He smelled burning sage and an open grave, and then he knew thirst. When the voices returned, they were fewer and clearer.

He could make out a word here and there. The pain and thirst were almost unbearable. Sliding back down into deeper dreams, he could see the face of an angel looking at him with soft familiar eyes but did not remember where he had seen her before. Her words came back to him.


“The banner, frayed and faded,
Sown in delicate fabrics of ego.
The shield, invisible and protective,
Hammered on anvils of self judgment.
The sword, swift and steely,
Forged in the fires feed by self doubt.
The castle, warm and welcoming,
Built with stones of compassion.
The crusade, just and mighty,
Fought on battle fields of self awareness.
The Knight, scarred and battle weary,
Healed by the light of self love.”


The Lady Amstell. Osric had loved her long years ago but it was not to be.

He then wished for the darkness and silence to swallow him once more. First, his thirst was slaked by the coppery taste of his own blood.

All faded as he slipped back into shadows of dreams and darkness, with only pain to keep him company.

Suddenly the words came back to him with meaning.

“Rest well, Wolf Lord. You are safe here.”

A new voice said, “Marked was the coming of the man no longer man.”

And the first voice returned.

“Never again will you go to your people, for all have fallen, crying lupine tears, and are now no more than shades of gray pain.”

He thought to himself, Wolf Lord? Was that his name?

He had a name once but now he did not know what it was.

Suddenly, it hit him as hard as the demon’s hammer. His name was Osric Eisenwulf. It all flooded back to him in one great rush. The demon, the betrayal, the fight, the losing. “I am the Ironwolf! I am the dammed.”

Osric silently screamed and screamed, where the sharp teeth of madness gnash and grind. He beat his head against the rock-hard darkness until bloody phantom Knights charged across his mind’s eye. Now all he wanted was pain. All he could taste is blood. And all he can feel is hate, but never fear, fear is for the foe. Fear, sharp teeth, and his swords edge.

The great wolf’s howl rang in his head, mourning the lost pack.


After a long time the madness passed, and the voice returned.

“You have lain long with the night, Wolf Lord and for too long has she darkened your eyes. See us now!”

With what seemed like all the will he could muster.

The Wolf Lord opened his eyes. With the blinding light came new and greater pain flowing through his body. It seemed to him that his whole body burned as if he were on fire as the room spun around him.


The light started to darken as the pain eased and the spinning slowly stopped. With dim, listless and palsied eyes, he looked out of the darkness upon the shadowy faces of many wicked looking Goblins.

Their faces were many shades of green with cruel and pinched features, long sharp noses and long pointed ears, black lipped mouths full of needle sharp teeth and shifting slanting eyes. Some had greasy looking hair, but most were bald with warts covering their scalps.

He could not move or speak but he could see who it was that was speaking to him. In addition, he could see in the faint candle light that he was under ground, for there were the bottom of great tree roots for the ceiling.

Then darkness closed around him once more, and he slid back in to blissful unconsciousness and away from the pain and rage with in him.

For what seemed a lifetime he slept until the Goblins woke him. This time there was no pain but the raw rage returned.

“We whom you call Goblins will soon go to war!
“Mortal man cannot stand against the dread dark one. He has corrupted many, and many now openly serve him freely of their own will.

“It is written in the black prophesies that a great wolf shall rend him and lay him low. It is true that you have bent and flaunted the Maker’s code. You, however, are what you are not by your own hand.

“The dark one however, has knowingly shattered the laws that has all creation in their keeping and that we cannot abide.

“Our elders find it fitting to have you, who stood before the Demon, lead us now in battle.

And if it is well with you, the most skilled of the wolf riders shall ride you into that battle.”


A new face looked at him and spoke.

“I am Abeazel Tit Biter, Leader of the Needle Teeth Clan, Second Wolf Rider. It would be my great honor to ride you into battle. We have over one hundred wolf riders and their Wargs standing ready to ride, but first we must get you in shape to fight.”

He placed a steaming bowl of lamb meat on the ground before Osric. The Wolf Lord’s mouth watered, and for the first time in eight years he knew hunger. He realized he was in wolf form. He stood on shaky legs and devoured the lamb with abandon.