The Vael settlement of Oakhaven had always been a picture of quiet prosperity, nestled in a valley where the Silverwood met the fertile borders of Morrathiel. Its inhabitants, hardy and resilient, lived in harmony with the forest, their lives governed by the rhythm of the seasons and the ancient traditions of the Silvermane Dynasty. Their homes, built from sturdy timber and adorned with intricate silver carvings, stood as testaments to their heritage and their connection to the land.
The sky above Oakhaven had always been a source of comfort, often clear and bright, occasionally graced by the silvery trails of the twin moons. But now, a perpetual twilight clung to the valley, an unnatural gloom that seemed to seep from the blighted lands to the south. The familiar howls of the Vael, once a comforting sound echoing through the woods, had fallen silent, replaced by an unsettling stillness that prickled the skin and stirred a primal unease in the hearts of the villagers.
The first sign of true terror arrived not with a roar or a battle cry, but with an unnatural chill that swept through the valley, extinguishing hearth fires and frosting breath in the early evening air. The livestock grew agitated, their panicked bleating cutting through the unusual silence. Then, the mist rolled in – a thick, black fog that seemed to writhe and coalesce, carrying the stench of decay and a bone-deep cold.
From the swirling darkness, they emerged.
The Skarnwraiths.
Their skeletal forms, pieced together from bone and bound by the black mist, glided silently through the village, their pinpricks of malevolent green light cutting through the gloom like baleful stars. There was no sound of approach, no footfall on the packed earth, only the chilling whisper of the mist that clung to their decaying forms and the mournful wail that seemed to emanate from the very air around them.
The villagers of Oakhaven, though familiar with the tales of Morrathiel's blight, were unprepared for the sheer horror of these creatures. Their silver weapons, symbols of their heritage and often effective against other Lycans, seemed to pass harmlessly through the ethereal mist that clung to the Skarnwraiths' skeletal frames. The traditional Vael battle howls died in their throats, replaced by cries of terror as the creatures fell upon them with a chilling, unnatural strength.
A young Vael warrior, his silver-inlaid axe raised in defense, swung with all his might at a Skarnwraith. The axe passed through the swirling mist, feeling only a biting cold, and struck the bone of its arm with a dull thud, doing little apparent damage. In return, the Skarnwraith's skeletal hand, wreathed in the black mist, grasped his arm. A wave of icy coldness spread through his limb, his life force visibly draining, leaving his flesh pale and cold to the touch.
Panic erupted in Oakhaven. Families huddled together in their homes, barricading doors with trembling hands, but the Skarnwraiths seemed to glide through walls as easily as they moved through the mist. Their mournful wails echoed through the village, a chilling death knell that heralded the extinguishing of life.
Elder Elara, a respected member of the community known for her wisdom and her knowledge of ancient lore, recognized the unholy nature of these beings. "They are creatures of death and shadow!" she cried, her voice trembling but resolute. "Silver will not harm them! We must find another way!"
But what other way was there against foes that seemed immune to their traditional defenses and radiated an aura of pure death? The Vael, a proud and resilient people, found themselves facing an enemy unlike any they had encountered before, a horror born from the corruption of a neighboring kingdom.
Lysandra, the captain of the Oakhaven guard, fought with desperate courage, her silver sword flashing uselessly against the encroaching skeletal figures. She witnessed her warriors fall, their life force drained by the Skarnwraiths' touch, their bodies left cold and lifeless. The speed and unnatural agility of the creatures were terrifying, their movements jerky yet swift, their attacks relentless.
One Skarnwraith glided towards a group of children huddled in the village square, its empty eye sockets fixated on their terrified faces. A young Vael mother threw herself in front of them, a desperate snarl escaping her lips as she shifted into her wolf form. Her powerful jaws snapped at the creature, but the Skarnwraith simply passed through her lupine fur, its icy touch draining her strength until she collapsed, whimpering, to the ground.
The attack on Oakhaven was not a battle; it was a slaughter. The silent, relentless advance of the Skarnwraiths, their immunity to silver, and their life-draining touch spread terror and death with horrifying efficiency. The silverless skies above the valley seemed to weep the black mist that birthed these abominations, and the only howls were the mournful wails of the undead, a chilling symphony of despair.
As the first tendrils of the Skarnwraith attacks reached the outer defenses of Vaelorin proper – terrified survivors fleeing Oakhaven carrying tales of bone and mist – the Silver King's court was thrown into chaos. The unthinkable had happened. The darkness had not only risen in Morrathiel but had spilled across their borders, bringing with it a new and terrifying kind of enemy, one that defied their traditions and threatened the very essence of their Lycan nature. The silent howls of the fallen in Oakhaven echoed in the stunned silence of the Winter Citadel, a grim warning of the horrors to come. The age-old traditions and the strength of silver seemed woefully inadequate against this new, unholy threat.