Lady of Thorn Keep Part 2

This Image for the Lady of Thorn Keep is now up for Auction! Thanks so much!

Check out the auction here: [link]

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

....The problem was the Great Plague. These giant insectoid monsters were not driven by ego, lust or petty things like gold, and therefore were very difficult to manipulate.

For several minutes, Sorcha sat there, considering her options. The leader of one principality had intuition over insects might prove useful; an individual that the Lady Sorcha had been meaning to neutralize. He was a loathsome, but ruggedly handsome wolf lord who was schooled in arcane lore growing up. If rumors were to be believed, this wolf, as a pup had taken a particular interest in insects and spiders from before he stood upright. He routinely terrorizes villages and small towns near his borders with all manner of vermin. Lady Sorcha smirked to herself. He may not know it yet, but this Great Plague invasion may have just saved his life.

Sorcha stood and stretched as she always did when she’s spent long periods of thinking on her throne. Now that she had a course of action mapped out in her mind, she relaxed and realized just how hungry she was. It was off to her study, where her dinner awaited.

The Warlock, Dire Fang, was tired after a long day of campaigning. Today, he was pushing east into the foothills of Garig where he’d finally have direct access to the metal mines he needed to be independent of the iron and steel cartels of the Old Empire. The residents put up a nominal struggle; not out of the ordinary for a population fighting for their lives. Dire Fang was on a mission of Genocide, and the Garrig Horsekin were his target. Not long ago, the Horsekin dominated the western foothills and plains. Others, including his own Wolfborne clan were treated harshly and forced into a meager reservations in insect infested swamps. All of that changed when Dire Fang, then just a pup, discovered Waissif, an angry little spirit trapped in a stoppered bottle (perhaps from before the War of Three split the race of men asunder). Waissif agreed that should the pup set him free, he would grant the young wolf the power to set his clan free. Once the bottle was unplugged, arcane knowledge was painfully burned into into the pup’s mind. The knowledge would unlock itself slowly through dark dreams and alarming visions as the young wolf aged. Others began to notice changes in Fritz (his given name) and began referring to him as Fenris, the name of the great mage whose powers transformed men into wolves.

Over twenty years have passed since that day, and the young pup, once named Fritz Wolfbrourne exacted revenge, not only for his clan, but the other downtrodden remnants surviving the Horsekin’s rise to power. The wolf circle of elders praised young Fenris and bestowed up him the title of Dire Fang, a namesake the clan’s founder; he who forged a weak alliance of families into Wolfbourne thousands of years ago.
“Ah, Dire Fang! There you are. I had wondered if those hoofed monsters had their way with you this day.” came the greeting of a particularly old, graying wolf. “No, no old friend. Though I know it disappoints you, but I still draw breath.” The older wolf laughed and slapped the warlock on the back. The elder was Fenris’s most trusted adviser, Griever Bloodpaw. Bloodpaw had fought along side the younger wolf’s side since the very start of the Wolfbourne revolt. Despite his age, the adviser was an intimidating presence.

“Then how goes your bloody business of power mongering and exacting revenge?”

“Better than expected. Worse than hoped.”

“Then the mines will be secured on schedule?”

“Perhaps as early as the next New Moon.”

“Remarkable.”
The two men paused their conversation as a particularly striking woman crossed the war camp. She turned to look at the two warriors and canted her head slightly, smiling as she noted their gaze. Turning to continue her walk, she swished her tail around and strutted out of sight behind a few tents.
Fenris and Griever caught each other staring then laughed. “Our talk can wait, young pup. Maybe you should go look into the nature of that... intruder in the camp.” Fenris eyed his adviser. “For an old man, Bloodpaw, you have a single tracked mind.” The older wolf shrugged mirthfully and gave Fenris a playful shove. “Old in the bones, young at heart. Go on. She won’t wait forever.”
Leaving Griever behind, the warrior crossed purposely to the gap between tents that his target vanished into. As he passed into the maze of tents, he caught a glimpse of the lady’s tail entering a tent to the left. Fenris strode in after, pausing at the tent flap, letting his eyes adjust.
“I didn’t realize that I was being followed” Sorcha whispered coyly. She was already at the opposite side of the tent, laying on a cot in a particularly alluring, welcoming manner. “Well, I’ve got to be diligent about investigating strangers in camp.” Fenris retorted, approaching with casual steps. These kinds of encounters were common near war fronts; usually involving the exchange of a few coins afterwards. As Fenris sat on the cot next to the courtesan, he felt something amiss. Hairs on his neck and back stood on end and an instinctive low growl built in his throat. She was emanating power; strong power. The warlock hopped to his feet and glared across at the woman in front of him. “Who are you?”

to be continued!!