08/19/2026: The Toll

Krelldutt, Torgan, Orbart and Elvir ride out from Vallaki headed east to the Martikov vineyard. The other wereravens, Davian and two sons, have flown on ahead. But something in the air feels wrong.

Not long out of the city, just before they cross the bridge over the Luna River. Friedrich trots behind the horses, watching the towering back of his master Krelldutt, who rides with the smaller dwarf, Torgan, seated in front of him.

Then he slows. A scent catches him from the north, and the dog circles behind Krelldutt’s mount, spooking the horse as a growl begins deep in his chest. He barks explosively at the tree line.

The riders rein in their mounts, squinting toward where Friedrich barks. Krelldutt and the others spot the werewolves, poorly hidden, in the forest.

A hulking, scarred werewolf, bigger and rougher than the others, plants himself in the party’s path and names his price: gold, or any other valuable they might be carrying. Krelldutt doesn’t dignify the demand with coin. He draws his Sunblade instead, the light of it enough to make the creature flinch — a weapon it has never seen the like of, and it shows on his face.

Undeterred, the werewolf snarls, “You’ll pay one way or another.”

Krelldutt answers by drawing his silvered warpick too. The response to the thuggish threat lands harder than words could.

The wolves fall back to confer, muttering amongst themselves. Straining to listen, Krelldutt and his companions all catch their plan — hamstring the horses first, then take what they want once the party’s grounded. The tortle passes his warpick to Torgan under cover of the huddle; neither Torgan nor Orbart carry anything silvered or blessed enough to hurt these cursed creatures without help.

Orbart, still finding his feet with what his own spellbook can do, finally lands on something usable and lets a bolt of blighting dark magic fly at the nearest wolf. The creature wheels, yelping in pain and surprise.

⚔

The battle that breaks out is savage and quick. Torgan, now armed with Krelldutt’s borrowed warpick, lets his rage boil over into a brutal series of blows that drops the pack’s leader almost before it can howl. Krelldutt’s Sunblade finds its mark again and again, radiant light doing what steel alone couldn’t. Orbart, growing bolder, latches onto a second wolf with a curse that drains its vitality into his own — turning the tide of the fight into something almost unfair.

One wolf begins to close its jaws around the minotaur’s arm before the bite goes wrong — teeth crack and give, and the wolf won’t be biting again for a long while. Elvir, himself a lycanthrope, is unable to physically touch or be touched by the werewolves’ unnatural hides. He can, however, hold position at the fight’s edge — a silent, watchful presence that unsettles the pack more than it helps. Friedrich barks himself hoarse from the sidelines, more noise than threat, but noise enough.

With their leader dead and the fight gone out of them, the three surviving wolves break. They peel off into the trees and vanish at the bridge, leaving the road — and whatever toll they’d threatened — behind them.

⚔

Echoes in the river valley slowly fade, and the party presses on toward the vineyard, worse for wear but undeterred. The morning grows less dim, but it is still heavy and grey with rain. Nothing about it is uplifting. Something about the day sits wrong with the travelers, a low unease none of them can quite name. And it is crescendoing.