Wolfmaster

Hello there, everybody. I welcome you to this excursion into a world not seen by many, but still familiar at its core to everybody- the world of heroes.

Please, leave comments, I will address them as soon as possible. Leave reviews- i welcome them. But please, if all you have to say about my story is bad things, then i would suggest moving on to a different story posthaste! And now, i will pull the veil on a look into the past...

August 6, 1696

Freedom, Massachusetts

A man ran through the woods, carrying a small bundle in his arms with a satchel thrown across his shoulders. He was wearing a set of wool clothes, with a leather overcoat on top and a tricorne perched on his head. His clothes were covered in tears, holes, and bloodstains. On the belt at his waist was a sheathed flintlock pistol and cutlass, as well as a small leather pouch with strange runes embroidered in white and red thread. From behind, angry yells and baying howls burst into the air, accompanied by the sounds of musket fire, pounding feet, and rustling underbrush. The man looked behind himself, to see a mob of men and women, each with either a torch or some form of weapon, screaming bloody murder. His murder, to be exact. It was a mob of people, gathered together by Reverend Elijah Prophet, a local priest and professional monster hunter, after the goading of Lucius Cabot, one of the Crown prosecutors. The man had always known that Cabot had something wrong about him since the snake had moved to Freedom, and now he knew it beyond a doubt.

“Trevor MacLowell, you can't run forever!” A man yelled out from behind, as Trevor kept running into the night. He had been captured a week before by Elijah and Cabots’ men. He had been forced into a cell, starved, beaten, tortured, and abused, and finally been made to watch his wife being burned at the stake as a witch, all before being dragged before the townsfolk in silvered manacles and being accused of being a sorcerer and a werewolf. Not like the idiots could prove anything. Trevor glanced back at the mob, his eyes flashing golden brown with a glimmer of hate, as he heard Elijah encouraging his men onwards.

Trevor had barely managed to escape with the help of a friend, who would likely face the gallows or the fire now. He had returned home, only to find most of his and his wife's possessions were stolen or broken. He had pulled open a hidden compartment in the floorboards, where he had stashed a travel bag with gold and supplies. He also retrieved the locket with the picture of his wife and daughter from the armoire, before leaving and heading to the neighbors. There, he retrieved his sleeping daughter, and headed out to the highway, where he had been waylaid by Elijah and his men, before fleeing through these woods to the south of Freedom.

Trevor stopped for a moment in the shadow of an ancient oak, looking down at the bundle in his arms and making sure his daughter was still safe. He smiled upon seeing her unblemished at all and still asleep, before turning and running in a path perpendicular to the one he was on before. Unfortunately, his current path led him straight towards Cabot and his men.

Trevor skid to a stop and started to back away, only for each of the men, and the demon himself, to level their firearms at him. As Cabot started gloating over his ‘catch of the mangy dog’ to his men, Trevor started hurriedly muttering under his breath, his eyes darting around and catching slight movements and faint green and blue lights in the surrounding woods. Right as Cabot motioned his men forward to take him though, Trevor's voice roared out.

“As I will, so mote it be!” With that loud invocation, the ground underneath the men burst open, letting loose the roots of trees and other plants to wrap around and tangle with the limbs and weapons of each man, to the sounds of swearing and cries of panic. At the same time, the lights and movements materialized into faeries and dryads, who had come to his aid in his time of need. They nodded towards Trevor and motioned him along, as a berm of dirt and rocks grew up around the men and in a line separating Trevor from the bulk of his pursuers. He took off again into the night, at an angle that should be south of Freedom, towards Boston..

Trevor kept running into the night, slowly losing the last of his pursuers. Upon reaching a small  and abandoned farmhouse, he laid in a corner, covering himself and his daughter with a blanket. The Archdruid drifted off to sleep staring at the brass locket in his hands, the image of a wolf engraved upon its face...