Gwyrindor

A troupe of werewolves emerges from the depths of the Garth forest, venturing forth into rugged terrain dotted with boulders and crisscrossed by the gentle flow of the Pluvoria River. With nimble bounds, they leap from one moss-covered rock to another, the sound of rushing water filling the air.

The dimly lit moon does little to light up the uneven terrain, but the werewolves move with surefooted grace, their senses attuned to the natural obstacles around them. Leading the troupe is Luca, a muscular figure with a distinctive mohawk and full beard. His thirst for vengeance steadily rises as they near the base of Mount Gwyrindor, atop which lies the Elven Kingdom of Anir.

"Let's pick up the pace," Luca urges as the looming silhouette of the mountain comes into view.

"Slow down, Luca," Hugo, a fat ball of a man, calls out, his voice strained with effort. "Some of us need to recuperate.”

Luca pauses, turning to face Hugo with a stern look. "We will rest when all the elves are dead!”

Hugo nods, swallowing his protest as he redoubles his efforts to keep pace with the pack.

“Don't worry Hugo, it will all be over in a minute,” Mike says calmly to him and Hugo nods with a small smile.

Upon reaching the base of the mountain, Luca promptly begins his ascent, wasting no time. As they climb, the terrain becomes steeper, and the rocks more precarious. With each step, they carefully find their footing, their claws digging into the rocky surface for grip.

Hugo's heart pounds in his chest as he fights to keep his footing, and tries to hide his fear of heights. Suddenly, a loose rock gives way beneath his weight, sending him tumbling towards the edge of a precipice. With a cry of alarm, Luca lunges forward, his hand outstretched as he grabs hold of Hugo's arm, hauling him back from the brink just in time.

"Thanks, Luca," Hugo gasps, his heart racing with adrenaline.

Luca's grip tightens as he pulls Hugo to safety. "Watch your step, Hugo. We don't need any accidents reducing our numbers, right?"

Hugo, balance restored, replies, “Right. But why did Alpha Sandro send so few of us?”

Luca leaps, setting his foot on a sturdy ledge as he straightens up before responding. "Hugo, why would we need more men when we have all the advantages? What can the elves do to us, stab us to death? We heal quickly."

"True, our abilities give us an advantage," Hugo concedes. "But I heard the elves have magic. We shouldn't underestimate them."

Luca scoffs. "Magic? Fairy tales and illusions, Hugo. Tell me, since you were born Kid, how many elves have you encountered with magic?"

Hugo lets out a resigned sigh, then responds, “None.”

"Save your fears for more meaningful things, Hugo," Mike interjects with his husky voice. "We're the wolves of the Garth pack, strong and courageous. Now let's move."

As they ascend to the mountain's peak, the breathtaking Elven Kingdom of Anir reveals itself in all its majesty. Towering trees frame the kingdom, their branches reaching skyward, while bridges intricately fashioned from vines span over crystal-clear streams. Meticulously carved arches adorn the landscape, leading the eye to vibrant gardens teeming with a variety of colorful flowers.

But there is no time to marvel at the beauty before them. As the werewolves draw near, alerting the elves to their presence, a warning bell rings out, setting off a flurry of activity. Those unable to defend themselves flee, seeking refuge in the Verdant Keep, while elven soldiers swiftly form a protective line, ready to defend their home.

"Kill every one of them," Luca orders.

The werewolves launch themselves at the elves, attacking with vicious ferocity, but the elves are not easily overcome. Performing special hand gestures and reciting ancient spells, they unleash blinding bursts of light and hurl fiery orbs at the werewolves which surprises them.

Hugo ducks and weaves through the chaos, his senses on high alert as he dodges the elves' attacks. Beside him, Luca fights with the ferocity of a wounded animal, his claws tearing through the elven armies, but with each assault, the elves double their attack, driving Luca and Hugo into a retreat as they take cover behind a big oak tree.

"See? I told you elves had magic," Hugo says, out of breath.

"Focus, Hugo," Luca snaps as he dodges a fireball.

Even in the face of their ferociousness, the werewolves are overwhelmed and outnumbered by the elves and their unexpected magical abilities. Luca and Hugo fight with savage growls, but in the end, they fall, their bodies joining the rest of the fallen. The elves cheer their victory loudly.

Amidst the celebration, Sheila, the High Priestess of the Temple of the Divine, glides forward with her entourage of disciples. Commander Jorah, a towering figure with a handsome face marked by an x scar from birth on his left cheek, pauses in his revelry as she draws nearer. His gaze soften as they fixate on Sheila, filled with admiration.

"Hello, Priestess Sheila," he greets warmly, his voice carrying a hint of fondness. "Here to take away the fallen?"

"Yes, Commander," Sheila replies with a beautiful smile. "It's our custom to offer them to the goddess as thanks for aiding us in victory."

Commander Jorah nods, though his belief in the goddess's intervention is uncertain. "Very well, Priestess. May the goddess accept your offering." With a glance at the fallen warriors, he steps aside, allowing Sheila and her disciples to begin their task.

The Temple of the Divine is a fancy white building standing tall among old oak trees. Its pointed spire reaches up high like a giant finger pointing to the sky. The pillars are made of marble with green streaks running through them, and the walls around it are covered in beautiful elven runes that tell ancient stories.

As the dead bodies are arranged in a solemn circle within the temple's sacred grounds, Sheila, cloaked in robes of emerald, raises her arms to the heavens. With a voice as pure as the morning dew, she recites the ancient incantations that control the great green flames.

The flames leap forth to consume the offerings, but they hesitate around Luca's body, flickering and dancing in uncertainty. The elves watch in stunned silence as it envelops Luca without scorching him, before moving onto the next body which immediately burns up.

This rare occurrence of the flames sparing Luca strikes fear among the elves, who hold the great green flames in reverence for their power to consume anything they touch into a state of nothingness.

Luca's body is taken to the Elven King's court for judgment. As they head out to meet with the King, whispers and murmurs fill the air as elves gather to catch a glimpse of the one spared by the great green flames. Sheila, calm and unhurried, guides her disciples through the labyrinthine corridors of the royal palace.

Upon entering the grand chamber where the king holds court, Sheila steps forward, her voice unwavering. "Your Majesty," she begins, "this one did not burn in the flames as the others did."

"I sense the lingering presence of the goddess fire around him," King Elian responds.

Sheila nods. "I sense it too, Your Majesty. Our elven lore speaks of the dual nature of the great green flames, capable of both destruction and restoration. We are uncertain of what to do with him, especially if he's brought back to life."

King Elian regards Sheila thoughtfully. "Indeed," he muses, "Well, you know what this could mean, right? Take him back to the temple and watch over him."

"As you command, Your Majesty," Sheila replies, bowing respectfully.

"Oh, and Priestess Sheila," King Elian interjects, "have you received any word from the Forest Whisperers regarding the recent disappearance of our scouts near the border? Someone… something must've taken them."

Sheila's eyes widen imperceptibly at the unexpected query, her mind quickly shifting gears to address the pressing matter at hand. "Your Majesty," she responds with concern, "the Forest Whisperers speak of dark things lurking beyond our borders. I shall seek the guidance of the Queen and hear her wisdom on this troubling development."

The king nods gravely. "Do so, immediately. They've been gone for too long and it bothers me."

"As you command, Your Majesty," Sheila replies before turning to leave with her disciples.

In the hallowed silence of the Temple of the Divine, Luca's body lies upon the altar, bathed in the soft glow of flickering candlelight.

Suddenly, Luca's eyes flutter open, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of newfound life. With a sharp intake of breath, he sits up abruptly, his gaze darting around the temple with wide-eyed trepidation. He struggles to understand what's happening around him, feeling scared and disoriented. He knows they lost the war, but he can't remember what happened next.

Then, he notices something strange—a green fire burning like a shield. Like a moth to a flame, Luca feels drawn towards it, his hand reaching out tentatively.

“Touch it,” Sheila cautions, “and you'll be consumed until nothing remains.”