The Boar’s Bane

You follow Old Man Hemlock out into the biting air. The dog’s barking has ceased; only the mournful bleats of the remaining sheep cut the night. Hemlock leads you to the pen—a rough timber enclosure now a scene of grim carnage.

His lantern throws an unsteady light across dark, congealed blood on trampled straw and earth. Several carcasses lie contorted; the stench of death is thick and coppery. These are not merely dead sheep but ravaged—bodies torn open with brutal, almost frenzied abandon. Exposed organs gleam, bone fragments litter the ground. There are no clean bite marks, no distinct paw prints of wolf or bear; the damage reads like immense, ripping forces that have simply torn the animals apart. A deep, unsettling silence settles over the pen save for the living sheep’s whimpers.

Theron steps closer, pale in the lantern glow, and kneels by a carcass. “By the archives of Oakhaven, Yohan,” he whispers, voice hushed with a blend of horror and fascination. “This is unlike any natural predation I have read about. No patterns, no characteristic feeding signs. The raw, indiscriminate destruction—creatures changed by dark sorcery, Bearsbane’s struggles—these texts spoke of violence such as this: not hunting for sustenance, but tearing for the sake of tearing. Blighted creatures, twisted by malevolent magic.”

You drop to a crouch and search the churned earth and matted straw. The lantern is thin, so you draw an oiled wick and kindle it with flint, throwing a steadier, flickering glow across the pen. Your training narrows your focus; patterns emerge.

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There are faint, disturbingly distinct tracks—larger than any wolf, surprisingly narrow, claws unnaturally long and sharp, gouging deep into the soil. No clear paw pads, only jagged impressions. There is no scat. The trail leads directly out of the pen toward the dark treeline of the Whispering Woods, not toward any known path or clearing. It moved with an almost ethereal silence, leaving little trace beyond these marks and the devastation.

You rise and relay your findings. “The tracks are unlike anything natural I’ve seen,” you say, pointing to the clawed impressions leading toward the woods. “No scat. This thing isn’t killing for food; it’s tearing for the sake of tearing. I mean to follow it now, while the trail is fresh. Would you rather stay with the farmer, or come with me? I will not fault you either way.”

Old Man Hemlock pulls his shawl tighter and warns you to be careful. Theron pauses, adjusts his spectacles, then finds resolve. “My purpose is to understand this blight,” he says. “I shall accompany you. My observations may yet prove valuable. Lead the way.”

You follow the faint tracks into the oppressive dark of the woods, senses sharpened; the air grows thick with the metallic tang of blood. There is a soft, guttural breathing and the quiet padding of heavy paws just beyond sight. You grip your axe.

You give a cry of rage, invoking your skill, and rush forward, crashing through undergrowth in pursuit. A wildcat—blighted, eyes aglow with an unnatural light—hisses as you close. You raise your axe and cleave into its flank. The creature yowls; dark blood oozes from the wound. Despite the blow it snarls, its unnatural eyes fixed on you.