Bounded on the north by the towering Grimwall Mountains, on the east by the swift-flowing Wolf River, on the south by the rolling plains of Aralan, and on the west by a broad, open stretch of prairie reaching across to the Khalian Mire, there lie two vast timberlands, joined flank to flank by a wide strip of forest running between. They are the Skog and Darda Vrka, and together they span four hundred miles west to east and two hundred and fifty north to south.

It is said that the Skog is the oldest forest in Mithgar, and perhaps this is true, for the Elves call it by no other name. They do not even call it Darda, but merely refer to it as the Skog. And so perhaps there is something to the tale that the Skog is the eldest… yet joined as it is to Darda Vrka, it is difficult to separate the age of the two.

Yet of the twain, it is Darda Vrka, the Wolfwood, captured forever in the songs of bards: songs which fill the very soul to the brim with a longing for the times of legend; songs that bring a glitter to the eyes of all who hear; songs of the Wolfwood where beasts of the elden days once and perhaps yet may dwell: High Eagles, White Harts, horned horses named Unicorn, Bears that once were Men, and more, many more of these mystical, mythical creatures… the forest ruled o'er by great Silver Wolves- the Draega of Adonar-or mayhap the Wizard some say dwells within. Aye, it is the Wolfwood bards sing of: a wide forest, an ancient forest, an enchanted forest, a warded forest shunned by those who would do evil.

But the bards neither sing songs nor tell tales of the ancient, hoary Skog, nor speak a word of who or what dwells deep in the shadows therein.

Rissa rode splashing across a swift-running stream and in among the gold and scarlet of the trees, Arin and the others following, and over the next two days they fared north and east, seeking the heart of Darda Vrka, covering forty miles in all. And yet by no earthbound sign could they tell that a Wizard lived herein, though for those same two days high in the cerulean sky above and nearly beyond the eye to see a snow-white falcon circled and circled, always overhead.

"Dalavar's eyes, I would imagine," said Biren when he first spied it.

"Dost thou really think so?" asked Perin, shading his brow and peering upward.

"It never stoops," replied Biren. "Besides, when hast thou ever seen such a bird? White as the driven snow. Falcons are never such, save gyrfalcons."

"Mayhap 'tis a gyrfalcon."

"I think not, brother. It seems too small and too far south. Too, if it were a gyrfalcon, this time of year its plumage would be grey, neh? And this one is white."

"Ghostly, one might say," added Perin.

"Dalavar's eyes," repeated Biren. "Mayhap we'll see him on the morrow."

"Mayhap," agreed Perin.

And onward they rode, following the others into the Wolfwood, while overhead a pale raptor soared.

Early next morn Arin on watch kicked up the smoldering ash and added twigs and broken branches to the newly exposed embers. As small ruddy tongues began licking over the laid-wood, she glanced through the morning fog toward the dimly seen mere at hand, where the mist rose up from the water to coil outward among the surrounding trees and envelop the entire woodland in its obscuring silvery clasp. Taking up a kettle, she stepped to the edge of the clear pond and filled the vessel with limpid water. She heard a splash off somewhere in the fog. Another of those delicious fish … or a frog. Behind her she heard a mule grunt and one of the horses snort. In a handful of running steps she was back at the campsite, where she roused the others.

"Tsst," she hissed, "something or someone comes."

"Where away?" whispered Vanidar, taking up his silver-handled white-bone bow. There was the soft scrape of steel as the other Elves drew weapons. Tethered to a line strung between two trees, the horses and mules edgily shifted about, their eyes wide and ears upright, their focus an unseen point across the mere.

"Yon," breathed Arin, pointing with her chin toward the pond as she doused the growing campfire with water from the kettle, the ruddy coals softly sissing and adding steam to the mist as they were quenched. "Something opposite caused a frog to jump. And the horses are uneasy. Something steals upon us." Arin set aside the kettle and took up her quarterstaff.

"This is Darda Vrka," hissed Rissa in protest even as she moved to a position along the defensive perimeter, her sword in hand. "Nothing evil should be about."

Silverleaf nodded, stabbing his long-knife into the earth before him, the weapon in easy reach, and he nocked an arrow to string. "Nevertheless, chieran, 'tis better to-"

"Yon," breathed Melor, using his spear to point through the fog to the right of the mere. "They come."

Obscured by the mist, blots of darkness slipped among the trees and toward the campsite, dense fog swirling about their vague forms.

Arin stared at the oncoming shapes and cocked her head and focused, as if she were looking into the flames of a fire-a trick of sight which had led her on more than one occasion to espy something otherwise hidden. But as surely as water quenched flames, the mist defeated her.

"Over here," sissed Ruar, gripping his saber and pointing to the left. "More come."

Horses and mules snorted and pulled back against their tethers.

"How many altogether?" hissed Vanidar.

"Four. -Nay, five… six," responded Ruar as the shapes in the mist drew closer.

"And six here," added Melor, taking a step or two outward. "They move as a pack and trot on four legs and are-"

"Draega!" called Rissa in glee as one of the great Silver Wolves could clearly be seen at last. Each as large as a pony, they came trotting out from the mist and into the campsite, their mouths grinning and tongues lolling over glistening white fangs.

Sheathing her sword, Rissa clasped the first of the great Wolves about the neck and buried her face in its soft white fur; it suffered the embrace in silence.

As Biren and Perin calmed the snorting horses and grunting mules, altogether twelve Draega gathered 'round the campsite.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Arin turned to set aside her quarterstaff, when there came a flickering in the corner of her eye, yet when she looked, nothing was there. A trick of the fog? As she had done before, she cocked her head and focused, attempting again to ‹see› something otherwise hidden… and of a sudden she saw a Mage standing at the extinguished fire.

Six feet or so in height he was-taller than most Elves-and as with all of Magekind his eyes held the hint of a tilt, and his ears were pointed, though less than either Dylvana or Lian. His hair was long and white, hanging down beyond his shoulders, its sheen much the same as Silver Wolf fur, though somehow darker; in spite of his white hair, he did not look to be worn by age. He was dressed in soft grey leathers, black belt with silver buckle clasped at his waist. His feet were shod with black boots, supple and soft upon the land. His eyes were as piercing as those of an eagle, their color perhaps grey, though it was difficult to tell in the mist. At his throat was a glimmer of silver, mayhap an amulet upon leather thong, and to Arin's eyes it seemed to gently glow.

None of the other Elves seemed to note him at all, and in fact looked everywhere but at him. The Draega, though, seemed to know he was there, for now and again one or another would glance at the Mage as if expecting a command, and then look away when none was forthcoming.

He looked straight at Arin and smiled. "Do you see me, hear me?" At Arin's nod, his smile broadened. "Then you must be a wielder of the wild magic."