On the plains, the wheel of a toppled wagon made a labored, groaning sound. The mountain peaks, crowned with cold rock and permanent ice, were soon cloaked in darkness, as the sun dipped below the ridges. Darkness: a solvent that can melt cruelty where blood and tears are cheap, allowing avarice to rear its filthy head. Even simple mundane pleasures sprang from this harsh environment.

A gang of thugs, whose trade is fighting and killing, slowly approached the wagon, still making its tortured noise. Another gang that had already settled in this territory, but they did not have a warm welcome for people of the same profession. Especially as they turned into lifeless corpses that can no longer shake hands with anyone, nor kill to make money. The thugs, freed from the yoke of their humdrum lives, seemed uninterested in collecting any relics.

A young Elf grabbed the wheel to stop it; else, it might have spun forever. Standing within twenty corpses, he listened to the murmuring whispers of his fellow mercenaries. They were looking for a certain chest. One within the group, who liked to boast of his knowledge, said that the chest was an object that Baron Lewin, former lord of Giran, concealed before he lost the castle. However, he failed to attract his colleagues' attention. They were not interested in the contents of some box stuck in a mud hole somewhere. Rather, they chatted enthusiastically about the women they would woo and the booze they would drink when they returned to the village.

"Natalie's strawberry pie is the best in Aden. I know some accuse me of being unmanly when I go crazy over just a pie. Ah, well. I used to have an attitude like theirs, until the day Natalie baked a pie for me! According to Natalie, the secret of making a delicious strawberry pie is -- Aarggh!"

A gigantic arrow, as big as a javelin, drove through the chest of the pie-loving mercenary, exposing its evil crooked tip. The dying mercenary looked at it as though he had never seen such a thing before, and then turned his eyes toward his fellow mercenaries. He did not have the opportunity to say farewell to his fellows. The other mercenaries sprang to the opposite side of the wagon to ready themselves for the next volley from their unknown attacker.

The mercenaries were hesitant. They were not stupid enough to rush towards the forest without knowing what was lurking there. However, they could not just sit around the wagon without locating their hidden enemy. Again and again, sharp sounds, like the ripping of silk cloth, were heard. Each time, some part of the wagon was destroyed. The wagon caved in on itself, as if it were made of paper. Arrows came from across the road and the mercenaries ran in the opposite direction into the forest. Although the forest looked safe enough during the day, when night fell it turned into an ominous monster. A small root connected to an old tree stump that looked like a witch's hand stretching low on the ground, caught the feet of passersby. Dead dried-up tree branches poked their eyes, and rotting water under fallen leaves besot their shoes. The insects, whose rest was disturbed, expressed their displeasure by violently attacking the mercenaries' eyes, ears and noses. Surrounded by such formidable enemies, they expected the mysterious archer soon to close in on them. They split into groups of three or five and went into hiding, waiting for the archer's attack.

Feeling his chest tighten, the Elf looked up. Unlike those it contained, the forest looked peaceful. The wind-filled sky that ushered in the night was clothed in fine deep indigo fabric studded with pearls. Soon the round, full moon poked its head between the trees. When the wind died down as though it was proclaiming someone's fate, the forest let out the sound of a lonely beast's cry.

Birds hurriedly flew away, roused by the angry shouts, screams of death throes, terrible wails and moans. The shadows showed their sharp fangs and rushed in like lightning to rip, slice, twist, bite, claw, hurl, kick, break, and finally to kill. A few minutes later, the forest was filled with gasping and moaning, soaked in dark red blood. The full moon grinned, coloring the scenery in a lifeless, colorless hue.

The Elf was confused, unsure if he was alive or dead. In the scenery that had turned hazy gray, the two eyes of the wolf he suddenly faced sparkled in bright green neon. The Elf was curious why the gigantic wolf was meeting its eyes with his. This question was soon answered by his head, which felt like it was about to fall off, and his legs that helplessly dangled in the air. The wolf stood up on its two hind legs, grasping the Elf's head with one hand. With its other hand the wolf held a bow that looked similar to the one used by rangers, except much larger. When the wolf opened its mouth, the Elf could see its teeth, which looked like countless daggers covered in dark blood. A phrase was whispered in his ear.

"... World Tree Glade is..."

It took the Elf a little time to realize that the wolf was talking to him, so he missed most of what the wolf had said to him.

"... if you don't want to see the World Tree Glade uprooted, do not touch the Seal."

The wolf threw the Elf carelessly to the ground. The Elf attempted to stand up, but realized he could not control his legs. Barely able to support his upper body with his two arms, he glared at the wolf.

"Why do you threaten me?"

The wolf, having already walked away, suddenly stopped. Each step he took was imprinted with dark red footprints. The wolf answered.

"It was not a threat." Then the wolf disappeared, leaving the Elf behind.

Some time later, when the Elf managed to remember why he came to this place, he returned to where the wagon had been rolled over. Then he realized he had been following the footprints of the wolf. The wagon was lying on its side and dead bodies of mercenaries were strewn all around. Everything appeared the same as it did before, except the chest had disappeared.