Into the Jaws of the Warg King

by Luke Thomas

Dear Diary,

We were putting the final touches on our drake statue, the village draped in autumn’s fiery hues, when the howls pierced the air. No hesitation—Alistan and Liliana surged forward, shields raised, as Liliana summoned a phantom steed that materialized in a burst of spectral light. The creatures that lunged from the treeline were abominations: wolves with the twisted faces of men, their eyes glinting with cruel intelligence.

I loosed a fireball, the explosion scattering the first wave in a shower of embers and ash. Hayley followed with a curse that left the beasts retching, their guttural snarls dissolving into whimpers. The fight was over in moments, our preparations leaving the wolves little room to breathe, let alone strike.

Afterward, we sifted through the remains—autumn wolves, their fur streaked with russet and gold, their human-like jaws frozen in snarls. These were no mindless beasts; they understood speech, carried commands from their master. Their tracks, half-hidden under fallen leaves, led northeast, deeper into the woods.

As we travelled onward, we spotted a twister looming ahead, a spiraling monolith of dust and leaves—yet not a breath of wind touched us. It was surrounded by a set of standing stones. Unease prickled my spine as we approached the menhirs, their stones etched with Elven runes naming the seasons. Hayley’s identify spell confirmed their purpose: ancient conduits to bend the realm’s very rhythm.

Gael plucked goodberries from his pouch—their blossoms still dewy—and laid them at the spring menhir’s base. The air shimmered, the twister collapsing into nothingness as a warm breeze surged forth. Rain fell soft as whispers, revealing a grassy hill and the dark maw of a cave.

Inside, Gael’s call echoed into the depths. "We seek the lord of this dwelling!"

The answer came as a growl. The head of a hound emerged—massive, fur black as a starless night, eyes like smoldering coals. Likely the Warg King himself (and not War King as Alistan corrected me). "Prey," it rumbled, jaws dripping disdain.

Liliana smirked. "And you look like a doggy."

The beast snarled in anger, vanishing into shadow, daring us to enter its dark lair. We followed, the cave’s throat tightening around us.

The cave swallowed us whole, its walls slick with moisture and tangled with roses that should not bloom in darkness. Alistan’s torchlight trembled as a screeching howl tore through the air—a sound that clawed at the mind as much as the ears. The dire worg lunged from the shadows, a hulking mass of muscle and malice. Alistan met it head-on, sword flashing, but the beast’s fury drove him to his knees, blood staining the grass beneath us.

I hurled magic missiles into the creature’s flank, their force staggering it long enough for Hayley’s raven to channel healing energy into Alistan. He surged back up, blade biting deep into the worg’s throat. For a moment, we thought it over—until the cave’s cursed magic stirred. The roses blackened, the worg’s wounds sealed, and its eyes snapped open with renewed hunger.

Dadroz’s arrow pierced its skull mid-lunge, and I finished it with a firebolt. Flames engulfed the beast, spreading to the unnaturally lush grass, smoke curling like vengeful spirits.

Then came the wolves—two more, slinking from the dark. Gael’s bell trap chimed a warning, giving us a heartbeat to react. Liliana’s sword cleaved one in half, while Alistan’s strike severed the other’s spine.

We took a rest on the scorched grass, catching our breath. The cave reeked of burnt fur and blood, but the silence was a balm. Ten minutes. That’s all we dared take.

We pressed deeper into the next cave, its walls giving way to a chamber dominated by a gnarled tree, its leaves wilted and clinging to skeletal branches. Beneath it lay a moss-crusted stone, two dire wolves lurking in its shadow. Liliana approached, her voice steady as she parleyed. They spoke of duty—bound to aid their Warg King in winter’s den. When reason failed, Hayley’s magic coiled around their minds, bending their will to silence.

The winter cave was a tomb of ice. Alistan and Liliana led, their boots skidding on glass-smooth floors. The Warg King awaited us there, a hulting beast with frost-caked fur and eyes like frozen blood. He laughed, a sound like cracking glaciers. “Foolish prey. Ulther needed only two days’ delay—you’ve gifted him four.” His grin widened. “Slay me. The High King will simply stitch me back from shadow.”

The Warg King’s taunts were cut short by Hayley’s guttural curse—a wave of sickly green energy that slammed into him. He retaliated with a howl that vibrated in our bones, teeth rattling, vision blurring. Alistan and Liliana charged, blades raised, while the rest of us loosed arrows and spells. But the beast shrugged off fire and steel alike, its frost-furred hide defying even our fiercest strikes.

Liliana fell first, the Warg King’s jaws clamping around her torso before hurling her aside like a broken doll. “Prey,” he sneered, blood dripping from his maw. Alistan’s roar echoed through the icy cavern as he hacked wildly, driving the creature back. It was Dadroz who ended it—a single arrow through the eye, the Warg King collapsing mid-snarl.

We found nothing in his lair but cold and silence. Liliana, revived by Hayley’s magic, delivered the news to the remaining dire wolves. They growled, unyielding, refusing to abandon their home. So we left them to their hollow existence.

Back in the village, the fey flocked to our statues. Their gazes breathed life into the stone—our drake’s scales shimmering, muscles rippling, until Thor’yn (as Alistan named him) stepped free, a creature of living copper and fey whimsy. The villagers gifted us a silver tray that conjures a feast once daily—a small comfort in this treacherous realm.

We rode hard for Whitewail, Thor’yn and the other statues brought to life carrying us swiftly through the Feywild’s ever-shifting terrain. Grass bowed in our wake, no longer a labyrinth. Yet time twisted again—the sun froze at the horizon, dusk clinging like a shroud.

Now we camp in eternal twilight, my wards humming against the unknown. Galiene’s curse gnaws at my thoughts. Ulther’s games loom. But tonight, we rest.

Tomorrow, we steal a boat.

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Into the Jaws of the Warg King

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