The Cleansing of Hjaltland Hall

They say that here, down by the banks of the River Ølv, you can see the shadows of the Fjördrunners upon the water's surface against the light of the full moon. They are a cagey, and mysterious lot, the River Wolves of Mistbrook. Once, long ago before the Fayth began their genocidal rampage against our kind, they could be found just as easily as you or me, going about their days like any other. Mistbrook Village was always a place where one could find respite among their numbers. They were a friendly and kind people, led by those of Clan Lögr. The Lögr were the most influential and powerful of the River Wolf clans, bannermen to Clan Drage. That tale, however, we will visit another night. For now, now I shall tell you, my curious friend.

Tonight, I shall weave you yet another tale. A story of how a lone Wolf carved apart an entire town in but a single night. A tale of bloody rage and righteous vengance against the Fayth, and the treacherous wolves who took arms against their own kind.

The humans, they refer to this as the Massacre at Barrowstall. We refer to it by another name entirely.

To the Lupo, that night shall forever be etched in their minds. How that one Wolf, already a mythical and powerful being among our people, became a Legend that shall forever be whispered upon the winds. This is the tale of...




Long ago, before the dark times of the Purge, the village of Hjaltland was a pleasant and peaceful place. It was there that The Bearers of the Rite of Clan Lögr resided, to commune with the Gods, and interpret their will in all things for the River Wolves far and wide. It was seated high upon the Ølv Fjörd, and it was a place that wolves of all clans would go to to seek a refreshing of the mind and a cleansing of the soul. But, make no mistake, this was a place where Naé was paramount, the highest God among the River Wolves, and of Clan Lögr. However, long ago, the Fayth had driven them from this scared place, and ransacked it for all that it had. They left behind a fair few of their soldiers and agents, tasked with building it back up as a Human settlement. And among them, there were a few wolves who had sold their very essence to the Fayth, that they might be spared. Cowards, in every imaginable right. A slight against our people, our ways, and our Gods. For over 150 years. the Fayth trampled the lands, taking what they needed, and doing nothing to honor Móðir Islimore.

But there came a time, about fifty years or so ago. It was a night that was very much like any other for the humans of what was now known as Barrowstall. Workers put away their tools, soldiers took off their armors, and young apprentices would lay down their heads upon soft pillows filled with the furs of fallen wolves. And those wolves whom took up with the Fayth, they took off their finer clothing, and sat down to feast upon human foods that suited not their stomachs, but their new stations. And as the night grew darker, and the moon shone brighter, a funny thing would occur. High up in the sky, looking over the town of Barrowstall, the moon began to darken. It's hue would shift from a bright silvery light into something darker. It took on the color of a reddish brown, as clouds began to overlap and blanket the town into even further blackest night. Something they could not see came calling that night, as the Gods had demanded his presence here this night. Under the watchful gaze of the Blood Moon, he would do their bidding, as was his Oath, and his sacred Vow.


Standing near the wrought iron gates that led into the town proper, two of the Fayth's soldiers had stood guard, wearily talking to one another, paying no mind to their job. After all, why would they? Nothing happened here at Barrowstall except for the random incursion by elk during their mating season. One, a rather dumpy man, short with a thick mustache and the faint sent of oily meats sat in the makeshift guardhouse, tending to his meal of hard cheese and crusty bread. The other, a younger man, a bit athletic by the looks of it, with long hair tied back into a ponytail. His hand idly tapped away at the pommel of his sword sheathed on his hip.

"Hey, Ratheri, you ever stop eating?"

"I'm an old man, I need to keep up my strength, you see."

"Of that I'm sure of, if you are to haul that corpulent body of yours around!"

"That's not very kind, Rikkard."

"Wasn't meant to be."

At that, the short Ratheri scoffed, and went back to eating. It was just then that Rikkard snapped his head to the side, raising an eyebrow as he looked out at the mountain pass beyond.

"Did you hear that?"

"Hear what, the sound of you complaining?"

"No, Ratheri, I'm serious. I heard something out in the wood."

"Most likely just another Elk, boy. Calm your nerves."

"But it isn't even mat- ungh!"


Suddenly, as Ratheri looked to Rikkard, what looked like a very sharpe spear had pierced through the back of his neck, exiting out at the adam's apple of Rikkard's throat. The young fayth soldier tried to cry out in pain and anguish, but only the sound of blood sputtering and stomach bile churning upward was heard. Ratheri was in a state of shock as the piece of bread he had been gnawing at fell from his gaping maw of a mouth, unable to make even a sound. As if on instinct alone, he began frantically reaching for and grabbing at where his sword would be, and as the spear's tip retreated through Rikkard's neck, the boy dropped to his knees, and then fell over face first into the soft dirt. Ratheri looked down in confusion, realizing his sword was not there upon his hip as it always had been. Yet as he looked up, he saw a flash of glimmering light, almost shimmering in the darkness.

"No, no, it can't be! It's just a story, told to wee children so they will go to bed without fuss!"

And yet, in that moment, which would be frozen within the plump little man's mind for the rest of his life, albeit brief, he had come face to face with that very myth. For upon the town of Barrowstall this night, the Gods had summoned up one of their favorite sons of Islimore. Just as quickly, Retheri would try to call out for help, yet, much like Rikkard only moments before, he found he could make no sound. For his own sword had comes across his throat, but at a breakneck speed, causing the blade to chop clean through his neck. And as his eyes connected with the feral pair before him, his head slid from it's perch, rolling down to the ground, and making it's way a few feet out of the guardhouse onto the dirt path. Under the Blood Moon, the eyes of the now dead shimmered with reddish hues, as the man clad in nothing but sackcloth pants and brandishing a spear of untold power began to walk toward the town proper.

The Baramoðn had arrived, and it would be a night the Fayth would not soon forget...