The Hounds of Skaarsgvar
The dead of winter had never seemed so threatening. Even the sliver of moon above seemed treacherous, providing just enough light to trick the foot into snags or snowdrifts.
The hunter stooped low in the snow, waving over his son. The boy, no older than nine seasons, bent next to his father, shifting the quiver full of arrows he carried for him. The man shifted a finger over his lips, quieting the question in the boy's eyes before slowly pulling an arrow and knocking it to the bow.
A flash of motion in front of the crouched pair and the father released the arrow. Too late...
A cloud passed over the sliver of moon and when it appeared again the snow was tainted red.
