The night was cold.

Clutching the hood of my travelling cloak, I pulled it forward in an attempt to shield my face from the brisk winds that howled through the forest and chilled my bones.

   How much further is it?" I asked my mentor, Crowley. The Nightwolf stopped suddenly, and without warning to his two apprentices.

"No further than the last time you asked me, Silus," he grunted before moving on.

Crowley was often brusque with his replies--had been since we'd first met. And while at times it was difficult to hold a conversation with the old wolf, I didn't consider him rude: everything he said or did simply needed to have purpose, whenever lacking any, he remained silent, communicating exclusively in well-timed grunts.

"You said that last time," moaned Vincent, lamenting his weary feet.

    Vincent, on the other hand, felt the need to vocalise every thought that crawled through his spiky blonde head, it was one of the reasons we worked well together; he spoke plenty for the both of us.

    Crowley ignored his pleas for succour, choosing instead to remain focused on the tree lines, his glowing sanguine eyes scanning it for threats.

"Shouldn't we make camp? Easy to get lost in the dark." Vincent said.

    It was a poor lie. Our Nightwolf blood, among other things, gifted perfect night-vision. Not that I didn't sympathise with his plight; we had travelled far and almost without rest, days by boat, crossing the rocking waves of the Amriel plains, a day in Merrakkim to gather supplies before heading inland, across the Simmerian wilderness for near a fortnight.

    Even though our mutations eliminated the need for sleep, our bodies could still succumb to exhaustion. And we were getting mighty close to that point.

Crowley scooped up a loose stone and, without aiming, loosed it at his apprentice. Years of training took hold and Vincent dodged nimbly.

"Seems like you can see just fine."

Further down the forest road, I edged toward Vincent as Crowley pulled ahead of us. "You should have let the stone hit you," I smirked, "we'd be camping by now."

Feigning laughter, Vincent landed a playful punch on my upper arm, "let him throw stones at you, see how willing you are to stand still." He picked up the first rock he could find and took aim.

"Pups," Crowley called, halting Vincent's attempt at retribution. Ahead of us, at the centre of a grassy basin cornered on all sides by lush forest, sat a small town-- unassuming at first glance, save for the black tower that loomed over it.

"Welcome to Kelzure."

Vincent and I stared at the small Simmerian village, at its centre stood what looked like a large marketplace, covered in coloured fabric that, even at the witching hour when the Nightstone's light was at its weakest, still shone brilliantly.

"You really think there's a sorcerer here?" I asked Crowley.

"Horseshit. No sorcerer, witch, or warlock has been seen in centuries," Vincent said assuredly.

"That we know of," Crowley grunted.

Vincent scoffed as he shot his mentor a sidelong glance, causing the old wolf to shrug,

"I'm telling you, there's nothing here," said Vincent. I nudged an elbow into his rib. "A state drakarn says you're wrong."

He grinned, producing a glimmer of bronze as he revealed the small coin in his pocket, "you're on."

"We won't find anything by freezing our bollocks off out here," Crowley grunted, adding, "if there's anything to find."

Shouldering our packs once more, we wandered down the sloping hill and toward the coloured lights of Kelzure.

----***----

    The village was like so many others this far out from Merrakkim; bordered by sloping plains on all sides, and complete with provincial palisades that served to protect it from bandits, wights and ortho's--vicious dog-like creatures with two heads--but not much else.

"Look," Vincent called out as we descended into the clearing below. Scattered along the field were tiny clusters of Ivory.

    "Skeletons," I whispered under breath.

There were hundreds, if not more, they encircled Kelzure, and not one bone closer than a hundred feet from its walls. Crowley knelt beside the stained ivory pile and examined it closer.

"Ortho, male. No more than three, four yours old." He looked over the nearby piles, some still were half-rotted corpses, most were nothing more than bones. "I see more of the same, along with human, Elking, even--"

"Manticore," Vincent said, tapping my shoulder. Crowley shook his head, "No Manticore's."

My eyes widened, "No," I pointed toward the eastern walls of the city, "Manticore!"

The massive beast charged toward the city, its powerful tail tossed dirt and grass into the air as it slapped against the earth. Fifty feet ahead of it sat a young girl picking flowers, unaware of the danger she was in.

Crowley said nothing, no call to arms nor a blood-letting battle cry, he merely dropped his pack and took off toward the danger, sword in hand. Vincent and I followed suite, racing after our mentor.

Our feet pounded against the ground, pushing our bodies to their limits as we raced the Manticore to its next meal. Crowley shouted at the daft girl, beckoning her to flee but his cries fell on deaf ears.

"We're not going to make it!" Vincent shouted. My weary bones screamed with each step. As swift as Nightwolves are, they pale when compared to a hungry Manticore.

The girl stood, having finished organising her carnations, and began toward the city gates. But before I could breathe a sigh of relief, she turned, coming face to face with the enormous beast.

"Run!" I shouted. She looked at us for the briefest of moments, a small smile on her face.

"What is she doing?" I huffed between breaths. The beast lowered its head and charged. Ten feet, five feet. It was too late, Vincent was right-- we'd never make it in time.

We ran on. If we failed to save her, avenging her death would have to suffice. The Manticore leapt through the air, claws at the ready, snarling maw opened and ready for the kill. I held my breath.

This is it.

Except it wasn't. The creature exploded in an exuberant display of colours and ichor like some kind of morbid fireworks display that revealed a translucent dome covering the city. The corpse clashed against it and sent streaks of lightning that crackled over its peak.

The girl stood silent, wearing the smallest of grins, amused at the creatures messy demise. Vincent and I gawked at the beautiful girl, wondering what it was we had just witnessed, and how she could wear so little in such cold weather. She wore a layered skirt that tapered to one side at the bottom with tiny gold coins sewn into the hems that jingled as she walked, and a lime shirt that had been tied off at the side, leaving her midriff bare.

With an ivory smile she welcomed us, "you must be the Nightwolves," she said calmly.

Crowley tensed, his hand still firmly gripping his sword. "How do you know who we are?" He asked.

Her smile never faltered under the harsh gaze of the old wolf. "Come, the sorcerer of Kelzure has been expecting you." She turned on her heels and left, not waiting to see if we followed.

Crowley glanced over his shoulder, peering through strands of his now dishevelled onyx mane, "Get the packs," he commanded before following the strange girl. I looked at Vincent who, like me, was still in awe of what had happened.

"Okay," he finally said. The small bronze coin flipped through the air between us, landing in the palm of my hand.

"You win."