Under a cold night sky, with dark, billowing storm clouds swallowing the stars by the second, a lone white wolf bounded across the open terrain.
The wolf’s feet glided across the volcanic-laden land, light enough to not awaken a single newborn. Any prey of the wolf would not have heard the majestic hound barreling toward it; only with great fortune to catch its arrival would it stand a chance at survival. But tonight, the wolf did not move to eat. It did not move to hunt for sport.
It moved to warn.
Behind the wolf, the clouds rumbled with a gentle thunder that flashed brighter with every passing minute. Lightning which started as mere flashes of red heat grew into intense bolts of white. From a distance, it almost seemed beautiful, in the way that an army decimating its enemies with ruthless efficiency had a distorted beauty to it. But in the same way that the victims of said army would only find horrid death and agonizing torture, the incoming storm would leave nothing but desolation and defeat.
Though the wolf was not originally of this land, it had spent enough time to know its new home as well as the fur on its paws. The wolf bounded over the last hill, increasing its speed from a steady run to a draining sprint, before its destined encampment.
River’s End, an outpost oblivious to the happenings of kingdoms and war, peacefully one with the world of Nubia.
In River’s End, coming of age rites featured swims, hikes, and tests of endurance of nature; celebrations of birth came with a cleanse of the river’s water; and death was marked with a floating raft, a drifting into Nubia’s arms. Children played with the very same friends they would someday marry, age next door to, and mourn. Generations upon generations lived in River’s End; if someone permanently left, they had truly committed an atrocity against the town. If someone new arrived, they were met with great skepticism until their kin became entrenched in the town. Even those who took leave for longer than a week were considered guarded; sometimes, their stories of lands beyond were considered fables, not truth.
River’s End was a part of the nation of Muspar, which was a part of the world of Nubia. It lay west of Mt. Deus, the highest peak in all of Nubia, the center of the world that was said to be Nor’s throne.
But to the populace, these were no more a fact than the elevation of the tallest hill within a day’s walk, not a meaningful aspect of life.
Yet how much longer did River’s End have before it could not ignore the realities of Nubia? How would its populace respond to have its complete isolation shattered, the wolf feared? How would it feel about knowing said isolation had never been guaranteed, perhaps even an illusion?
These were questions that haunted the wolf as it searched for its human companion, its Bonded. Though more intelligent than a mere brute, the wolf did not have time to ponder such questions. Even as it crested over the last hill, moving so fast it was airborne for a noticeable second, it sprinted with an urgency reserved only for the most important of news.
It did not have far to go. The wolf’s Bonded lived on the western-most part of River’s End, making it the closest hut. Within reach, the wolf began barking, starting out as mere grunts before elevating to a high-pitched wail.
There was no time to waste. An enemy not of River’s End yet familiar to the wolf had come, and nothing would ever be the same for its Bonded.
