Before setting off on your journey into the mountains on a stormy winter evening, you stopped by a seemingly unremarkable tavern.
But the tale you heard there from a passing local adventurer gave you pause — About the upcoming hike through the mountain pass

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AB: 150$

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"The Legend of Mother Wolf"


Listen, traveler, and remember the words of the old world — a world wrapped in snow and frozen by wind.

Long ago, when the songs of stone and ice still echoed, when beasts spoke to the wind and spirits did not yet hide from human eyes — there was a tribe of wolves.

Not ordinary wolves — but white as the storm itself. Their fur shimmered brighter than freshly fallen snow, and their eyes held the wisdom of the ancient earth. They lived by the laws of nature, of the spirits, and of the Moon Goddess. Their wisdom was not human — it was deeper.

But then the hunters came to the mountains. Many of them. With fire and steel. Fur became gold, and the lullabies of wolf mothers turned into cries echoing through the snowbound silence.

For a long time, the Moon endured. She listened to the prayers that rose to her in the night — howls of grief, pleas for protection. And then, in one especially moonless hour, she showed her face to the earth, stained in crimson, and gave it her power.

From winter itself, from the frost, and from the final howl of a dying pup, she created Her.

The Wolf Mother.
With eyes where the blizzard swirls.
With claws that sing like ringing steel, and a voice that cracks the ice.
With every step, she brings winter.
With every breath — sorrow.

She does not come for those who honor the mountains.
But spill the blood of a beast for glory — and you will hear the howl.
And after it — the ringing of claws.
Your final breath will freeze upon your lips.

Adventurers and simple wanderers say she still roams. And sometimes, the Moon weeps crimson tears when she remembers her children.

Do not go to the mountains when the moon bleeds red.