Deepwood Weald The Pain that withers.

The dark wolf had not found a place that suited him. He had traversed the wilds with interested glances at each unmarked mountain slope, each frost-touched forest. They all had appealing features. He merely did not have followers. The healer had said that she would join him, if he could find others. Jörmungandr had struggled in this. Everywhere he went, he saw those tainted by Kvit. Even still, he seethed to know that the woman was beneath the pale ruler – the way she had spoken to him had been disgusting.

Padding confidently through the forest, the dark wolf paused on a familiar scent. His wine stare flicked, one way, then another. Lifting his snout into the air, Jörmungandr drank in the smells of the wild. Maiken could be scented, he knew. The distinct aroma of herbs and the stench of the tainted ones she shared a home with. The man followed the scent until he had found her.

Jörmungandr was not a kind man.

Maiken.

The black wolf’s voice was rough against the cold air. He could smell the freshness of her wounds. This was why the pale-furred ones could not be trusted. Jörmungandr’s stare was grim.

What happened?