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I

~ Evenfall ~

Eight years past, Awer watched Varra take his axe and leave the Eight. Eight years, eight brothers by arms. The Silver Warg, he was called; not the least due to his white hair which he had even in his youth. Varra was now an outlaw, not a brother - they were the Blasted Seven now.

The Blasted Seven upon the Blasted Cliffs. The Wolfmother was alk to play japes on them, and they deserved it.

Varra now grasped a spear; he was robed in a woolen robe from head to heel, and the faint glisten of silver was visible beneath his sleeves. His leather gloves grasped the spear.

They had hunted him for six years, from the Western Mountains downriver, and have finally hunted him down.

Snowflake after snowflake melted on his nose, but Awer paid no mind. The night was nearly upon them, and Awer knew blood shall have been spilled before morn. Whose blood - he couldn't know; it likely would be the blood of the seven, not the one, but of all seven?

His palm tickled the hilt of his koboldine shortsword. He tried readjusting his hood as to block the snowfall, but no matter what he'd done he wasn't comfortable.

All seven brothers waited for the other to begin.

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