A Pack in Peril

The air in the Great Hall of the Ravenwolf packhouse, usually alive with the scent of pine and the boisterous camaraderie of its inhabitants, was heavy with a different aroma – the cloying, sickly sweetness of decay. It clung to the rough-hewn timbers, seeped into the woven tapestries depicting ancient hunts, and settled like a shroud upon the gathered wolves. Their once vibrant coats were dull, their movements sluggish. A tremor ran through the gathered pack as a young wolf, barely past his cubhood, coughed, a rasping sound that echoed the sickness spreading through their veins.

Ubbe Ravenwolf stood at the head of the hall, his massive frame a stark silhouette against the flickering firelight. His own fur, usually a lustrous midnight black, seemed to have lost some of its sheen. The familiar gnawing anxiety, a constant companion since the blight’s insidious arrival, tightened its grip around his heart. He could feel the weakness in his pack, a mirroring of the land’s suffering. Each labored breath, each vacant stare, was a blow to his own spirit.

Beside him, Ragnar, his most trusted warrior, shifted his weight. Ragnar’s amber eyes, usually sharp and assessing, were clouded with a worry that went beyond mere concern for the pack’s health. Ubbe felt the weight of Ragnar’s gaze, the unspoken questions that festered beneath the surface.