Quietly, the phantom shape passes the gates of Drakesheath Hall The uneasy ballance of forces ruling in Drakesheath this past two years is disturbed. Forces of darkness stir the pot.

The wolf slips through the graveyard like a phosphorestent mist, casting for the scent of it's prey. It pauses at the graves of the Blatand family, someone has been here recently, but even the local goul has repected the wards placed here. It moves on. Church, lakeside, the empty Burgundian home, all the usual haunts, all quiet tonight.

The new gloom in unfoccused, it wanders the streets, even as the wolf does. The evidence of it's evil leaves traces here and there, but never enough for the hunter to pick up the trail.

Standing on the rook of the tavern, the wolf howls. It's lonesome call echoes in the night, as it does. It is a call to alertness, and call to arms. It stirs the dreams of the folk of Drakesheath, from His Lordship to the humble cot at the edge of town. Before dawn it slips back to the host, letting the night's wanderings drift back into his dreams.