Dark clouds had been overshadowing the serenity of his mind ever since they had taken the Wolf Lord prisoner. Finding the mad prophet locked up in the werewolf’s cellar hadn’t helped much to ease his mind either, and for some reason Orodreth couldn’t help but feel pity for the wretched creature.
He was loathe to leave Milon in Waterfort, the Stonemark’s new capital, especially without being sure if the Wolfbane potion had worked, but he’d rather not have to fight both Quentin Rogarvia and Milon in the wilds when the moon turned full.
Still, he took some comfort knowing that Neega Black was watching the Halfling, he was confident she could contain Milon, even if he did turn into a werewolf.
They trekked further on, exploring the lands around the Tuskwater. Their journey seemed liked an epic tale, wandering through the southern reaches of the Stolen Lands, performing deeds of great renown and valour. Their vanquishing of the Lonely Warrior would be immortalised in the Elf’s ballad the Battle of the Barrow and their epic deeds remembered by the fires of future taverns.
A few days after rounding the Candlemere, they had stumbled upon the tracks of a small forest drake. The creature was dealt with easily enough, but the devastation in the forest not far from its lair was caused by something more massive than the draconic creature alone.
Levelled trees, splintered trunks and discarded carcasses all revealed to Aspar’s tracking skills the passage of a massive force of enormous creatures travelling west, towards Drelev lands, but coming from the south, coming from Mivon.
Orodreth was able to convince Baroness Stonemark to follow the tracks south, wanting to know where the monstrous army had come from.
However, two days into the search things went awry. The moon waxed full and Quentin Rogarvia, the werewolf formerly known as the Wolf Lord, broke his bonds and fled into the night.
The party gave chase and the Elf’s sense of foreboding grew more imminent as they drew closer to their noble quarry and closer to the borders of Mivon…
Orodreth recognised the shapes of the trees and the lay of the land from his youth spent patrolling the northern reaches of Mivon, fending off raiders from the Stolen Lands, fending off the Wolf Lord’s raiders, but his heart could not rejoice at this nightly homecoming, for he knew what was to come.
They could smell the battle field before they could see it, hundreds upon hundreds lay dead or were dying. Giants, Elves, Men, Trolls, their ghastly moaning disturbed the nocturnal quiet, the fog of war eerily clinging to the corpses.
Then the Elf saw the Werewolf, gorging itself on the fallen soldiers, and a fiery rage came upon him. Orodreth spurred on Gil-Ered and the horse flew with great speed over the battlefield, trampling the feeding werewolf. The monster roared and attacked, swift as lightning, and wounding the paladin’s steed, caused it to throw its rider to the ground.
Orodreth leapt up and vicious claw met splintered shield as the two foes locked in mortal combat. The Wolf Lord’s talons clove through steel plate and in answer Orodreth’s silver axe rent the wicked creature’s sinew. Both enraged and terrified by the Elf Lord’s wrath, the Werewolf prepared to strike a terrible blow, but Orodreth sidestepped and brought his axe down with all his might, vanquishing the raging Rogarvia.
Orodreth sighed deeply, blood gushing from his wounds, the world colourless around him. As his companions rushed to save the bleeding prince, he knew the biggest test of the night was still to come.
Putting his foot on the werewolf’s neck, he looked at his fellow warriors and spoke:
“I’m afraid I can’t let you heal him. I am very sorry, but since we are no longer in the Stonemark, Quentin Rogarvia is my prisoner now, a prisoner of Mivon.”