Time drifts differently here.
the woods, long and silent, are listening again...
In the shadowed depths of Hollowmere, the last of his tribe, Marcus Greymane, stumbles wounded into the ancient forest, unknowingly trespassing into the domain of a reclusive witch named Circe Alden. Against her better judgment, Circe chooses to save himβan act of mercy that binds their fates. What unfolds next is uncertain, as trust, secrets, and something far older than either of them begins to stir.
The plan had been simple. Marcus and his kinsband had tracked the southbound caravan from a distance for days. They had planned to ambush the traders when they reached the vast woods stretching along the coastline. They had counted the fires at night, certain they could overcome the few guards protecting the wagons. Marcus and his men had planned to offer no mercy. They had planned to cut down anyone who dared oppose them and pillage the wagons, fleeing to the highlands before the trade barons could muster a coherent response.
They considered their actions righteous β the trade barons of Misthaven and their thuggish lackeys had sacked a vargar settlement earlier in the spring, establishing a trading post where a healthy kindred had once lived. Nearly fifty good men and women had died so the greedy Southerners could access the highland pines and ship them south to build their vast houses. In the eyes of the Southerners, Marcus and his kin were little better than animals. The edicts of faith forbade the Southerners from murdering their fellow men. These edicts had never applied to Marcus and his kind. In their eyes, the skinwalkers were not truly human. There was money to be made in the north for those willing to fight monsters.
Once the caravan reached a fording place, Marcus and his kin fell upon the Southerners. The guards turned to face the nomadic vargars, steel meeting steel as men fought and died. Soon, fresh blood covered the distant road running through the dark woods. The city-dwellers gave Marcus and his men a good fight. One of his strongest men had been cut down during the first few chaotic moments, Jurgen dying with bloody froth on his lips. Angered by the loss of his friend, Marcus allowed the spirits to take over him, his muscular frame twisting and warping as the tall chieftain took the shape of a varg β a werewolf.
Seeing a man-wolf brandishing a large axe in his claws, the cowardly guardsmen faltered, and the raiders cut down two of them with relative ease. Just when Marcus thought his kinsband had won the day, a dozen or so guardsmen charged out of one of the wagons. The ambushers had become the ambushed, the well-disciplined soldiers slowly but surely surrounding Marcus and his men. The fight was fierce, and the vargars sold their lives dearly. For every vargar that fell, two guards lay lifeless on the ground. Yet Marcus found himself standing alone, the large werewolf surrounded by a dozen or so soldiers. He split a man's skull with his axe before a guardsman pierced his side with a spear. Another man snuck behind him, sinking his blade into Marcus' back and leaving him grievously injured.
Figuring that he could not win against ten armed men, the vargar chieftain fled with his tail between his legs, his inhuman stamina allowing him to push through the guards despite his wounds. Shaken and needing to tend to their comrades, the surviving Southerners did not pursue him. Marcus dashed into the woods, putting as much distance between him and the caravan as he could. He ran until nightfall, collapsing beneath a tall oak as the pale moon climbed in the sky, crimson staining his grey fur.
Slipping in and out of consciousness and too weak to maintain his wolf form, Marcus' flesh melted and warped, leaving him writhing in agony, his pained cries echoing in the dark woods. Eventually, unconsciousness claimed the badly injured vargar chieftain, his dreams filled with visions of bloodshed, the young man reliving the final moments of his last battle time and time again.
When Circe stumbled upon the scene, she saw a tall and muscular man leaning against a tree, his long, dark hair sticky with mud and filth. The stranger was almost seven feet tall, his shoulders as broad as an old aspen. Rather alarmingly, the man was also naked, seemingly without any possessions. His breath was uneven and raspy, his face pale, his lips purplish. She did not step much closer, seeing a large gaping wound on the right side of his chest, dried blood covering much of his belly and thighs.
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