Folksburywoods Story Blog

Winston was tired of fighting and the war. After the fall of Mörken and his Troth army, the forest defense forces were released and told to return home as heroes.

Heading home meant a two-day hike through harsh wilderness with a blanket of fresh snow and freezing temperatures. Perhaps the dead were the lucky ones.

After passing through a small village, Winston’s journey took him over farmland and thick wooded hills. Exhausted from the march, the soldier built a lean-to and started a fire.

The villagers were generous and provided him with smoked meat, cheese, and brown bread for his service. After eating a light meal, Winston relaxed beside the fire and dozed off.

The fire must have drawn the Morruk’s attention to the campsite, for Winston was jolted awake by the distant howl of the beast. “This can’t be happening. To survive the Troth only to be torn to shreds by a werehound,” cried the soldier.

The hounds baying drew closer, forcing Winston to rise and prepare for combat. “By the gods, I hope it’s alone. I might stand a chance,” Winston remarked.

The soldier knew you must position yourself on open ground when fighting one of these beasts. Should you become cornered, it was all over, as their attacks gave you no chance to adjust your weapon.

When the hound broke the tree line, Winston saw its grin. Drool seeped out, falling in strands to the frozen ground below.

“If I must die, then I shall take you with me, beast,” shouted Winston. The hound circled twice, gauging the soldier’s position, then lunged.

Winston blocked the beast’s approach with his sword, causing it to reconsider its attack. After each attack, the beast pulled back to gauge its advantage and then circled until its next attack.

“I know I will die, beast, but I am not afraid, and knowing you will go with me makes my end worthwhile,” cried Winston. After several hours of the cat and mouse game, the man was exhausted.

“I don’t care; let it be done. Let the beast come to send me to sleep’s embrace. Do you hear me, beast? Come, I am yours,” shouted Winston. Then he knelt and thrust his sword deep into the frozen ground.

The houd approached, sniffing the air and trying to see if this was a trap. With a swift lunge, it was over. The soldier lay motionless on the ground, staring at the stars.

The hound sat next to him, panting, making no aggressive moves, just sitting and looking at Winston. Winston looked at the creature. He was at peace with his end and waited for the attack.

Moments passed, and the hound stood and walked over to the soldier, gave a sniff, and licked him on the face, turned, and trotted away.

“So this is Hell. I died on the battlefield field, for only in Hell would a werehound lick your face without taking it off,” mumbled the soldier to himself, then passed out.

Winston awoke to the sound of birds and the sun on his face. “I’m not dead after all,” said the soldier, who stood and glanced in amazement at his village in the distance.

On the walk home, Winston’s mind could not get over the fact the beast did not kill him; instead, it licked him. “Why did it allow me to live,” he repeated as he trudged along.

Reaching the village’s edge, the soldier felt a great sense of tranquility. “Peace, that’s it. The beast knew I was at peace with death, and there was no sport in killing me. Perhaps the lick was meant to say, “We will meet again in Hell,” remarked Winston.

Winston breathed the crisp Winter air, which, for the first time in ages, did not contain the smell of death or burning buildings. “It’s good to be home; I think I’ll stay and enjoy life for a while,” said the soldier with a wry smile.