Asher lays against the hard packed dirt of the Graywall Mountains. His companions rest in a campsite tightly fitted into a flatted section just off a trail, which provides safety but none of the comforts a high born son would wish. Though well tended, something about the large worg bite across his shoulder has a lingering ache that makes it even more difficult to find rest. It is late though, and despite two of the twelve moons in the sky there is a raw feeling of darkness.
There is no rest, but Asher at some point sees the camp around him is empty. The others are gone, their bed rolls and belongings left behind. The smell of the wrog pelts left aside to dry smell tangy and surprisingly putrid. Being alone registers in his mind, but Asher finds himself unable to even turn about to look for where the others have gone.
His eyes stare into the darkness, waiting to be met. Long, strained time passes before yellow eyes appear to stare back. Then another set, and another. Six dead yellow eyes moving forward in the gloom, too low to be a man’s and too high to be a typical beast. Dark figures of exposed muscle and clotted wounds trot into the camp. No guardian stops them. The dead worgs walk ahead with no sign of pain, even as one awkwardly steps down on a broken paw.
“It was to come with us.” The led beast growls in goblin. The voice having a hollow and distant tone, as if it were still speaking from deep in the cave. “It was to come with us, but it cheats!”
The three forms walk past their own pelts, holding a stronger sent of death and rot. Their mouths drip thickened gore from between missing and broken teeth. The remaining shards appear jagged, more viscous then even a full mouth of fangs. Even paces away, Asher can do nothing but stare and smell their decay.
“The Keeper wants it.” The three say together. “The Keeper would have it, and show it the ones it loves.” The are so close now. Cold, lifeless breath hits Asher’s face with each word. “We will give the Keeper a taste.”
“We will bring the taste, and then wait by the Keeper’s feet”
“We will wait at the Keeper’s feet.”
“The Keeper will know it’s taste”
“And the Keeper will let us gnaw on it’s loved ones while we wait.”
Long, cold, rotten tongues slide out and lap Asher’s face.
Asher wakes. His brow wet, with cold sweet or something else.
Worg pelts dry, but their smell hangs in the air.