Dire Wolf

Appearance

The dire wolves of Grizburg are immense, soot-black predators whose fur hangs in greasy mats, streaked with ash and blood. Their eyes burn like gutter coals in the fog, and their paws crush stone as easily as bone. Chains, rusted shackles, and scraps of torn armor dangle from their hides—remnants of victims they dragged screaming through the alleys.   ---

Origins

Legends claim they were bred in the Black Fire War, wolves swollen on carrion and warped by Zothra-Khaar’s leaking essence. Others whisper they were once loyal hounds of the Barons, released into the Depths and abandoned, only to return centuries later—hungrier, larger, and driven mad by darkness. However they began, they now belong to Grizburg alone.   ---  

Habitat

They prowl the streets of Rustwater and Greendocks when fog thickens, hunting in packs of ten to twenty. At night their howls echo through iron chimneys, rattling shutters and snapping the courage of even seasoned enforcers. Beneath the Sko bridges they gather, their breath steaming with the stench of chemical runoff, marking the ruins as their den.   ---  

Ecology

Dire wolves eat everything: flesh, carrion, refuse, even leather. They prefer living prey, tearing apart workers and leaving only bones gnawed slick. Their packs thin out vermin, but also spread terror—forcing whole neighborhoods into silence when the hunt begins. Their droppings glimmer with shards of iron, a reminder of the armor and chains they’ve already digested.   ---  

Behavior

Unlike natural wolves, these beasts do not stalk quietly. They revel in fear, harrying their prey across cobblestones, driving quarry into dead-ends before descending in frenzy. Their pack tactics are brutal—half circle prey while others break walls or leap from rooftops. When they kill, they do not simply feed—they drag remains through the streets, leaving trails of gore like territorial banners.   ---  

The Whispering Depths Connection

Some say the packs are guided by whispers, as if the dead god himself drives them through the fog. Their howls sometimes harmonize, rising into tones eerily similar to the chants of Depths cults. Explorers claim that deep underground, entire caverns echo with those howls, though no wolf is seen. Whether they are guardians or parasites of the Depths remains uncertain.   ---  

Use by Factions

Certain Barons exploit them, luring packs into rival territory with trails of meat or corpses. Some mercenaries claim to ride them, though such claims usually end in silence and torn banners. Cultists of Zothra-Khaar see them as avatars of hunger, marking their paths with blood offerings. Others hunt them for their pelts, which fetch fortunes when fashioned into armor, though few hunters return alive.   ---  

Cultural Role

To common folk they are nightmares made flesh, called “Ashhounds” or “Fog Reapers.” Mothers warn children that dire wolves smell lies; a dishonest child may wake to red eyes at the window. Riverfolk whisper that packs choose their prey by scent alone, drawn to those who betrayed kin or cheated neighbors. In Grizburg, fear of wolves enforces a harsher law than the Barons ever could.   ---  

Legends

Old Muckfingers tells of the Night of Twenty Chains, when a full pack stormed Rustwater, slaughtering so many that the streets ran black with blood. He swears the Barons bought the wolves off with a barge-load of corpses, and to this day the pack’s alpha drags chains thicker than a man’s arm, proof of the bargain sealed in gore.   ---  

Threats to the City

Every fog-heavy night risks disaster. A pack can depopulate an entire tier before dawn. They leap onto barges, capsize patrols, and scatter workers like vermin. Fire barely drives them off, and bullets seem to vanish into their hides. They are not pests to be culled but predators who own the streets by right of hunger.   ---  

Behavioral Oddities

Some packs leave bones stacked neatly, as if offering tribute to something unseen. Others circle shrines, howling until the stone cracks. The strangest packs have been seen dragging chains through alleys, not for prey but seemingly for ritual, leaving sigils etched in the cobblestones by their clawed feet.   ---  

Adventuring Hooks

• A pack stalks Greendocks, leaving Barons’ enforcers torn to pieces. • Wolves circle an ancient shrine, their howls breaking stone. • A cult believes a dire wolf alpha carries the soul of a slain Baron. • A merchant hires hunters after his caravans vanish, blood and chains the only trace.   ---  

Closing Words

In Grizburg, the night belongs not to men, but to wolves. Their red eyes pierce fog, their howls echo through steel, and their hunger shapes the city as surely as forges and contracts. To walk alone is to gamble your flesh against the pack’s hunger—and the wolves always win.

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