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The dust shrouded king stirred upon his tarnished throne, his faded emerald eyes glinting softly in the gloom of the ancient keep. Once the proud warrior-king of the ancient wolfkin, he now sat looking over the silent halls of his crumbling keep. Watching the pale forms of his spectral subjects as they milled about the ancient halls, still loyal long after their death.

Once his kingdom rivaled the great cities that lay past the forest, described to him by the spirits of his scouts. The ancient wolfkin, powerful warriors and proud hunters, flourished under his rule. In the days before humans walked these lands, the other beastkin would travel for days to trade with the wolfkin craftsmen or to seek council with the king. The gem of the kingdom was the keep. A grand structure of monolithic white stone, its walls seemed to glow with the warmth of the midday sun even amidst the coldest of nights. Its vaulted halls were covered in tapestries and rugs, softening the stark hardness of the stone passages. Now the moths had eaten away the rich fabric and time had stained the pure stone an uneven yellowed ivory.

The wolf-king himself was an imposing sight, a sight worthy of being the face of such a grand kingdom. He stood head and shoulders over the wolfkin, rivaling the height of the dragons from the far desert. Powerful muscle rippled under his rich grey fur and his piercing emerald eyes foretold wisdom beyond his years. Despite his appearance and his ferocity on the battlefield the wolf-king was jovial and relaxed. His court never held a jester, for the king himself would often play the fool. His warm voice rose easily above the sounds of his guests. Though, when need be, the wolf-king proved to be serious and wise, weighing all options and considering every outcome. But there would be some outcomes even he could not have foreseen.

He forsook the fancy dress and ornaments that one would have expected, instead he favored his armor the like of which had never been seen before nor would ever be seen again. A series of interlocking plates and scales, made from a strange unearthly metal and enforced with runes and spells unique to the wolfkin mages. It turned aside all blades, claws, and magic without suffering a scratch. Now the ancient set hung from its rack, coated in the dust of centuries. His ancient blade lay beside it, the heavy claymore blunted and pitted by the relentless march of time.

It was at the height of his rule that the horrors fell upon the grand kingdom. They came from the primordial caverns that laced the accursed mountains that loomed over the edge of the kingdom. The twisted nightmares crept slowly across the lands, unhindered by spell or sword. Their acidic slime coated skin a vile greenish black. They had no legs or arms for they slithered across the ground like bloated slugs. Tendrils sprouted chaotically from their bodies, some tipped with vestigial drooling maws while others carried cruel barbs. The cloying stench of rot and corrupt magic hung about them, a miasma so putrid it cast a feverish pallor to the light that shone through it.

With a heavy heart the wolf-king watched as his people fled before the encroaching doom. Within days only he and the victims of the vile scourge remained. Those unfortunate enough to have been caught by the horrors had their flesh stripped from their bones, their bones dissolved by the acidic slime. But they were not killed, for the corrupt magic of the creatures bound their souls to the world of the living. These victims of fate now drifted through the halls of the keep, determined to help their king in what few ways they could.

For days the wolf-king stood upon the high walls, watching the sickening, writhing mass of abominations worm their way through the streets of his crumbling kingdom. The howling winds carried the stench of death and decay, of vile corruption and perversion of life, up from the dead city. Though even as he watched, the wolf-king felt a strange surge of corrupt energies, and before his eyes the abhorrent army seemed to melt in to the ground surrounding the keep. As the abominations sank slowly into the tortured soil, they released a stench so vile it burned his eyes and made his stomach churn. Retching, he stumbled down to the depths of the keep, anxious to get away from the malodorous assault.

In the weeks that followed, the once lush farmland that surrounded the city turned to a decrepit swamp. Eventually parts of the city began to sink into the gluttonous mud. The twisted and gnarled branches of corrupted trees clawed like skeletal fingers at the walls of the keep. The aging king resigned himself to the fate of a solemn guardian. Condemning himself to the grim fate of a lost watcher, to be slowly forgotten but always needed for the horrors still lurked beneath the earth.

Centuries passed and his scouts brought news of the world and of the fate of their kinsmen. But the king himself never left the keep, he sat upon his worn throne and wandered amidst the faded glory of the silent halls, but he would not leave. Not even Death would dare force the wolf-king from his hallowed halls, not until he was sure the horrors were gone. In his silence he combed through ancient books from the deepest reaches of the keep's library certain they held some forgotten knowledge of the vile scourge. The spirits tried to get him to speak of his finds, but he only ever answered with a sad smile.

The surviving wolfkin still tell stories of the great king, speaking in whispers of the horrors that once threatened their race, as if some buried instinct told them that the creatures lived on. Over time some tried to return to their home land, but they were lost to the cold swamp and the king's army gained another soul.