Legend Of The Worglord

Regarded as one of the oldest surviving pieces of mortal literature, the Worglord Manuscripts details the heroics of a hero known as the Worglord, a barbaric prince from a tribe that worshiped a totemic wolf spirit associated with the sun. Originally written a language that has now been all but forgotten by all but the most esoteric of scholars, the tale of the Worglord has inspired and captivated bards and audiences alike for centuries. Most of the surviving tale, however, is a patchwork of writings from hundreds of different authors, each hailing from a different era as most of the original document was all but destroyed in a fire that consumed the home of the only known structure to house a copy of the Worglord Manuscripts, a place called the Rosewood House.

The tale of the Worglord has always held spiritual meaning for practitioners of the occult, as by virtue of his legend, the Worglord is often believed to be the first spirit to associate itself with the Hero constellation. Conspiracy theorists wonder if the terrible fire that swept through ancient Ellencourt and consumed the Rosewood House was more than mere coincidence, but this speculation has never been proven accurate.

What follows is all that survives of the Worglord Manuscripts, collected from various scraps that escaped destruction by fire. Although not inherently obvious to those untrained in linguistics, in its original tongue the Worglord Manuscripts was an epic poem written in alliterative verse, although the translation below has lost most of these flourishes.

The Worglord dove into the bottomless pit through night and past the dawn, to the bottom of the world where the light of no god could follow him. The monster had dwelled there for a hundred seasons, and she felt his presence before his blade. Seizing the Worglord with horrid claws, the Beast that Births ripped and teared with horrid claws but dealt no harm. Dragged into the heart of her lair, the Worglord found he could not wound her with his blade, for it had been smithed by a common man. Discarding his famous blade, he seized the beast by her scaled through and threw her to the floor but she tossed him aside and lunged again. A giant’s ax hung by the wall, too large for a man to carry. But the Worglord swung it regardless and sent her head rolling across her lair’s floor with a single, clean stroke.

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