The Curse of Fellhollow

Prologue

Nestled at the edge of an ancient forest lies Fellhollow, a quiet village steeped in stories older than memory. The forest, known as the Duskwind Thicket, is a place of shadows and myths—dark, untamed, and teeming with ancient spirits. But none loom as large over the village as the tale of Vardyr, the giant wolf whose presence is said to be as old as the forest itself. In Fellhollow, Vardyr is both feared and revered, a creature of contradiction—protector and curse, salvation and doom.

Long ago, the villagers say, Vardyr was no mere beast but a guardian spirit known as the Keeper of Balance, a being entrusted with maintaining harmony between humans and the wilds. Under Vardyr's watchful gaze, Fellhollow thrived alongside the forest, their lives entwined with its rhythms. Yet prosperity breeds greed. As the village grew, the people began to take more than what was given—felling ancient trees without thought and hunting beyond what they needed. The forest spirits, angered by the broken pact, turned their backs on humanity.

And so Vardyr changed. The once-benevolent spirit grew cold and vengeful, its heart hardened by betrayal. Where it once walked beside humans, it now stalked them. Farmers found their livestock slaughtered; hunters who ventured too deep into the woods never returned. The wolf, it seemed, grew larger and more feral with each passing generation, as if the sins of the villagers only fed its rage. Forced to retreat, the people of Fellhollow learned to fear the very woods that had once provided their livelihood.

Desperate to stave off the wolf's fury, the village elders devised the Moonbinding Ritual. Every decade, on the first full moon of autumn, a villager clad in white—the Hollow's Offering—ventures deep into the Duskwind Thicket. There, they leave an offering: fruits, herbs, and a wooden effigy carved in the shape of a wolf. This symbolic act of respect, the elders say, placates Vardyr for another ten years. Yet each decade, more whispers stir—rumors that the ritual is no longer enough, that the wolf grows restless.

Some believe Vardyr hungers for more than offerings of wood and fruit. The old folk speak in hushed tones of the wolf's true nature: that it is no ordinary beast but a spirit that transcends flesh, perhaps even the forest's soul made manifest. Others claim Vardyr is a curse from the gods, a punishment for the villagers' greed. And there are a few—those with keen eyes—who insist the wolf's gaze is too knowing, too human. In its amber eyes, they say, lives a flicker of memory, as if the wolf recalls every broken promise and forgotten vow.

The villagers know one truth above all: Vardyr cannot be killed. Axes and arrows splinter against its hide, and fire only seems to drive it deeper into madness. Year by year, it grows stronger—an unrelenting force that waits at the edge of the forest, watching and waiting.

Fellhollow holds its breath each autumn, praying the ritual will buy them more time. But as the next Moonbinding approaches, an unease spreads through the village. The air grows heavy, and the trees whisper warnings carried on the cold wind.

For in the depths of Duskwind Thicket, something stirs. And this time, it may not be satisfied with mere offerings.