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Time of the Wolf is a story of Myth, Magick, Adventure, Love and Legend.
A story is told by an old innkeeper to a young man seeking answers….
Come sit by the fire lad and warm your bones. The air is chill and the night long, when the heavens are without the moons. Here, take a draught of this Upland Fire. It is the finest in the land.
The evening is dull now. My guests have filled themselves with good Highland whiskey and retired to their rooms. You look in need of a cot yourself, and it is to my regret that I have none to spare. For tomorrow the clans meet in celebration of the coming of the Wolf, and on such a day, every tavern within a day’s ride be full to overflowing with any man old enough to hold a tankard and wield a hefty sword.
What is so special about a wolf, you ask?
The Wolf be not an animal, lad, but a warrior the likes of which will never come again. He stood alone amidst a field of ten thousand warriors to fight to save this world. Or so the legend goes.
You would prefer the truth. Nay, you would not want to hear it; no listener ever did. They find boredom in truth. They want shining heroes, handsome men—tall and strong—good deeds and fair damsels. There is no room for such things as human frailties and indecision in legend.
Yet still you would hear it?
Perhaps just this once, for in me I feel a need to release that which has been held too long. To once again free it to the air.
Aye, ’tis midnight. A good time for a story. A time for memories. A time for ghosts.
What was that? Speak up, boy. I am old and my hearing is not as it should be.
You say I speak as if I was there?
Well, maybe I was, and maybe I wasn’t. What is time but someone else’s dream? There have been many tales told of the man, but let it be said that I know this story as well as any man can. You are sure you wish to hear it?
Aye, we do have all night.
Then settle back, and I shall relate to you the story of the warrior they called the Lord of the Wolves or the Wolf, as it be, the way it truly was. The legend of Radin Hawk.
For some uncanny reason you remind me of him. Same coloring—same eyes. I never have seen eyes that exact color again. The color of the moors in spring; deep blue almost purple.
Well, where shall I start? I suppose the beginning is as good as any… ‘Twas a time long ago…
…a time of sorcery and myth, when legends were forged and magick flowed like water. Men were real men, and women more beautiful than the first rose of spring. And under a younger sun, Dros-Delnor still stood. The mightiest castle in the realm…