The Vhool'Rael

The wolfman splashed through the cold, murky waters of the lightless bog, haste replacing the stealth which usually characterized the movement of his killer kind. He cared not for the blind animals of this night realm which scurried or took to flight at the cacophony of his oncoming; their flesh was not foremost on his mind.
Neither the blind lichen festering upon the damp earth, nor the grotesque fungal stalks which twisted upward in lame imitation of trees, had ever been graced by the rays of the sun, but this did not matter to the lycanthrope, for his sight was well used to such circumstances and his keen snout had long ago caught the distant whiff of his brothers: raw blood and wet fur.
Once he had tracked time’s passage by the sun’s earthward fall, and now he did so by the moon’s silvery descent, but in this night-realm time was merely another mystery withheld amidst the abysmal dark, and he was unsure of the hours or nights elapsed since departing from the Weird caves. His pace had been frantic since then, but still he pushed on, so that his wolfish pants rent the air and slaver flew thick from his yellowed jaws. Trystane of the Apocalypse Order had fought few adversaries as both warg and man who could match his savage might, yet of his Master’s silent and murderous fury he was desperate to avoid. Even the dung devouring rodents with their sightless milky eyes would not come near the tattered forms, seared and dismembered, of those who had last failed the Vhool’Rael.
Trystane suspected the reasons for sudden, blind rage which every so often burst forth from his Master; his eleven brothers must suspect as well. At times strange memories returned to his mind, of painful light and things which he could not feel for anymore, but he found at such times that the thrill of the hunt, and the hot, raw blood of freshly conquered prey cured his mind's wanderings. Long, though, it had been since such red splendor had sated his hungering fangs, and the thoughts which made his skull hurt seemed to come more and more often.
The dead lights of the eldritch lotus encircling the camp wavered ahead through the mists, and Trystane caught the strong scent of his brothers from amid the clamoring riot of death and decay assaulting his nostrils. He slowed his lope, rising onto two lanky feet, charcoal fur spiked and dripping with the swamp water as he strode forward. Like most of his brothers in the Order, Trystane still preferred to don full body plate mail into battle, but now that their Master required their haste and stealth they must endure the fen’s oozing filth on their proud fur.
The lurid outline of a patch of gnarled fungal stalks came into view, and from these misshapen shapes emerged two figures, tall and lithe, though each powerfully built, their triangular ears sharply alert as they came near. Trystane called to them in his harsh, guttural voice.
“Gelahan, Lamorak. What tidings of the world above?” The sound of it still surprised him at times.
“None, Ouwan and Caradok have not returned.” Yellow-eyed Gelahuan answered in a throaty bark.
“You are the first. We have done nothing since you four left, not even allowed to hunt.” Lamorak added in a growling whine.
“A little patience and obedience would do you well, Lamorak. Have you already forgotten the lessons the Master taught you for your sullen tongue?” Trystane sneered.
The innumerable scars criss-crossing Lamorak’s visage contorted angrily and a low rumble echoed in the back of his throat, lip curling slightly.
Trystane lunged forward with a savage bark, snapping at his gray-hued brother, the sudden attack forcing Lamorak to fall back into the swamp water. Rising wretched and soaked, the chagrined wolfman made no further movement.
“As I thought, now return to your muck-ridden posts, dogs.” Trystane commanded, baring his teeth in a mocking smile.
His brothers crept aside warily, the one’s blood hot with rage as he passed between them. It would do them all well for a fight, otherwise their blood might be soon spilled on one another in absence of true prey or foe. The Master should let us roam, Trystane thought as he padded onto firm ground, does he who cast us in our exalted forms forget our nature?
Always the Vhool’Rael had been distant from them, even from their earliest days together in the sunlit world, but now he was silent and unmoved for days at a time, some matter dominant in his mind. Surely the tidings Trystane brought would stir the Master to action.
He came into the close ring of pasty spires, thick mist gathering about the damp earth. A single lotus light lit his vision ahead without warmth, barely illuminating a towering silhouette cast in terrible majesty against the pallid fungus. With a start he bent onto a single knee, head bowed. The subterranean light had fooled his eyes, and of late his Master had lost all scent; even his blood which had once flowed hot with life now beat cold and strange to Trystane’s senses.
“Lord of flame and death, your Captain returns.” Trystane intoned in his rasping wolf-tongue.
The faint figure stirred, and Trystane realized his Master had been gazing at the lotus, unaware of his presence. The Vhool’Rael turned towards him slowly, as if disengaging from some weighty thought, blocking the comfortless light so that the wolfman’s nocturnal vision could discern his Master’s form: In height and form nearly equal to that of a Bergen troll, adamantine obsidian plate burnt to the Vhool'Rael's flesh like wyrm skin, a crimson cowl masking his face save for the twin portals flickering like pits of deep magma in the dark.
“What have They decided.” The burning voice was the distant stirring of ashes, but Trystane knew it could turn to a volcanic torrent without a moment’s notice.
“The Old Ones would tell me nothing, but bade you, my Master, to come forth yourself to their Council. There, they say, they shall judge your worthiness.” Trystane answered, nearly cringing. Surely to demand the Vhool’Rael’s personal audience was a grave insult; worthy of torture and immolation.
“I shall go to Them.” The voice was almost normal, save for the crackle, like that of wood disintegrating into ash, which characterized the final word.
Trystane nearly raised his head in shock, but nodded slightly should his Master be testing his loyalty. The warg leader knelt motionless, claws sinking into the putrid mud, unsure what was required of him.
“Does my Master wish the Order to accompany him to the Old Ones Council?” The wolfman asked, uncertainty evident in his gruff undertones.
“No, if I must I shall turn the adders to ash.” His Master answered, continuing after a moment’s pause, “Your name is Trystane, is it not?”
“In the lands of men, yes.” Trystane answered cautiously.
“It is not the snakes which trouble me, Trystane.” The Vhool’Rael curled and uncurled his fingers thoughtfully, the hint of black scales emerging from beneath the red flesh of his hands. “Do you remember my brother? The youngest?”
The werewolf was silent a moment, searching that dim part of his mind.
“Yes, Ormir. He was only a pup when I began to teach him the…” Trystane trailed off into silence. He did not know what his Master wanted.
“Ways of the dutiful knight. I see.” A kindling of fire echoed in the voice. “It is well for us, then, that you two have a history.”
“I only taught the boy what I thought in my ignorance was best, before you my Master showed us of the Order a better way.” Trystane answered in a hasty bark, submerging his mounting dread at his Master’s turn of the conversation.
“There is no need to make excuses. Your loyalty has been foremost among the Order. It is why I sent you to treat with the Old Ones, and why I require of you a great task.”
“Whatever the Vhool’Rael commands.” Trystane answered smoothly, his limbs trembling with mixed excitement and trepidation.
“Ormir is here.” Flame roared in the voice as if from a sudden gust.
“The youngest? Then…the snakes have betrayed you!” Trystane cried in fury.
“One has, the Exile I think. The others would not have stood his presence. But I must know why he is here-he cannot disrupt our plans. I shall send you to find out.”
“But surely it will come to battle, do you mean him dead?” Trystane asked in confusion.
“No.”
“Then how?”
“I have turned you once from man to warg, now I shall change you back. My brother shall need a guide; I trust that you can play the part.” The Vhool’Rael spoke, lightning crackling in his speech.