The Sound of Wings

Innistrad is not a kind world.

Once, the Cathars, holy knights in the service of Avacyn the Archangel, roamed the countryside, giving blessings to the faithful, strengthening wards, and holding back the darkness. Now, it is all they can do to draw breath. The wards diminish, children are stolen from their beds,  and the shadows encroach upon all they held dear. Even mighty Avacyn, Archangel of Hope, and her countless winged flights of angels have fled or worse.

For those who live on Innistrad, the twilight world has gotten yet darker.

“Run, Stephen!” screamed his partner. The voice was a high frantic cry, brought of desperation. “Run!!”

Stephen was already gone, sprinting through the underbrush at breakneck speed. His heart pounded in his chest, moving as quickly as his thoughts. They had been out too far. Two villagers murdered in the last fortnight, and the previous night, a child missing. How could they have done anything else? Stephan had led the pair into the woods – searching for the young boy. His companion was a cathar in training, fresh from the Elgauld grounds. His name was Enval.

Screams pierced the dusk and Stephen checked his thoughts:  His name had been Enval. The snarls and howls of the pack left no doubt in his mind that Enval’s remains would never be recovered. So young.

Avacyn save us. He whispered the prayer as he darted between two bushes and onto a well-worn path. Avacyn save me! They had passed the border post nearly an hour earlier – into the Kessig Wilds. Neither of them had given any thought to turning back – there was a child to save! How could they have done anything else!

Enval’s screams died off, and moments later, the pack caught up to him. It was subtle at first: a flicker in the brush, visible only through the corner of his eye. Then an idle growl from his left. Stephen’s muscles burned, threatening to give way, but fear kept them moving, and a small miracle kept his footing sure as he careened through the forest.

Anything but the wolves, he prayed. Oh Avacyn, I don’t want to be killed. He remembered the descriptions of werewolf attacks that he’d learned about – how to recognize the signs of someone killed by one of the Cursed, how to know if you were dealing with Krallenhorde or Monodren.  How to tell if someone had been turned. Which parts of the body were safe to bury when the desiccated corpses were found.

Not like that. Not like this. He felt frenzied tears rushing down his face as the pack closed in around him.

Innistrad is not a kind world.

Then, he heard it. A single strong beat – like a bird’s wings but deeper, stronger. He’d heard tell of the sound before – during his training. They said that in years past, when Angels flew into battle alongside man, that the thrum of their wings provided a natural drumbeat for marching. There! There it was again, the deep, rumbling sound of enormous wings flapping against the cooling night air.

The wolves seemed to balk for an instant, and Stephen kept on the path as quickly as he could. In the woods, there was a chance that the holy being couldn’t even see him. He needed to make for the field – once he was in the open, the angel would surely see him. He might be able to go home – he might be able to live to see another day!

That kernel of hope took hold in Stephen’s chest as he ran. The wolves tightened their noose, but even as they did, he realized that they wouldn’t be able to stop him before the tree line. The wings beat louder now, closer. His savior, no doubt, flying just overhead. The wolves’ howls echoed, high-pitched, over the basso beat of the wings, an unholy symphony. The meaning was unmistakable: Follow him. Kill the man.

He burst from the trees and onto the open plains. The wolves were only half a dozen steps behind him.

“Avacyn!” he screamed with a breath he didn’t realize that he’d been holding. Every one of his limbs felt like molten steel. The wing beats grew closer and closer. He ran, and he listened, and he hoped. Eyes closed with panic, he tripped over an errant stone.

And then he felt the wind from the creature as it landed, heavy upon the ground. He heard the wolves all around him, frenzied with their kill.

And then, silence.

Stephan looked up at the source of the wing beats and felt every ounce of composure he’d cultivated over his life melt away. He felt the dread terror in his veins bleed away to icy resignation. Even the werewolves around him stared in fear, falling to their knees as they realized, as Stephan did, that Angels were not the only beings on Innistrad that flew.

The dragon’s wings unfurled majestically, dozens of feet wide. Its skin seemed to be made of some infernal metal, and its eyes burnt with shadow and flame. It opened its mouth and let out a roar that shook the whole plain. Like an earthquake made manifest, he felt the shock deep in his bones, rumbling there. Stephen closed his eyes against what he knew was his end. He felt the heat rise as the dragon called on ancient magics. Its mouth snapped open and a torrent of flame poured out, engulfing the wolves and Stephen alike.

The only mercy afforded him was that he only felt the flames for a few searing moments before his life was scorched from his flesh. The dragon roared in triumph.

Innistrad is not a kind place.