Snow fell down in sheets on the wild territories within the southern end of The Withering Gate. It was a barren mountain range and this pass, in particular, had a narrow path with high cliffs on either side. On the ridge, covered in white barely recognizable were two ballistae. They were light siege weapons, basically arbalests on tripods, and they were both loaded. Two figures were lying in the snow with their rimmed helmets keeping snow out of their eyes.

“Keep your breath steady, draw the heat from inside, and focus on what's ahead,” Troike Burkwood said hushed, but gravelly.

“I know, father,” Erevan Burkwood replied.

Erevan and Troike were not next to the ballistae, they were further behind cover, but still kept a close eye on the path below. The father and son both twisted their hands and each ballistae racked a bolt on their own.

The two heard the crunching of snow under heavy footfalls before a beast rounded the corner charging down the mountain pass. It was a wolf-like creature, standing on two legs at eight feet tall, and it quickly looked over its shoulder behind it. The werewolf was already hurt; cuts across his arms and legs, a slash down his chest, and arrows in his back.

Erevan immediately noted the wounds weren’t healing and opened his mouth to say something. It ran, its breath trembling, as hot steam escaped its mouth.

“Silver,” Troike said before Erevan had a chance.

“Hunters?” Erevan questioned.

“Doesn’t matter, fire,” Troike said

A surge of arcane echoed through the pass. The ethereal energy caused both ballistae to turn toward the werewolf and fire. The bolts ripped through the top right side of its chest and the bottom left side of its abdomen. The wolf fell back, pinned to the ground by the bolts that pierced through him and into the earth.

The two hunters rose from the snow, the father wielded a musket with an ax on the end of it, and the son wielded a blunderbuss. They walked towards the werewolf, no hesitation in their step, with emotionless faces. It reached its arms out to try and claw its attackers. The beast didn’t even come close to them. The older hunter raised his musket above his head and swung the silvered ax head down into the beast's neck

With the sharp and final howl of the wolf, the son watched as crows started to land at the edge of the cliffs above. They were watching, like an omen of more death to come.

The crunching of snow came again, this time several footfalls were heard. Four hunters rounded the bend in the pass and saw the aftermath of the fight. Two of them had bows and silvered arrows, one had a silvered halberd and bulky armor, the fourth had two silvered short swords.

“That’s our beast!” The armored hunter yelled.

“I believe that my blow killed it and therefore I claim the right to the corpse,” Troike growled the words.

“You want to take us all on?” The armored hunter gestured with wide arms to his party.

“Ballista bolts,” One of the bowmen muttered. “This is that runaway siege engineer, Burkwood.”

“I’m not running now! You want to try something?” Troike Burkwood called out as he leveled his musket to aim at them.

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The armored hunters' eyes flicked to the ridge, spotting the two ballistae, and so he carefully stepped back. The other hunters took note of this and seemed to ease off as well.

“Your kill. Your claim.” The armored hunter huffed as the rest of them turned and left.

The hunters rounded the corner. The one with the two silvered swords gave Erevan a strange look as they disappeared from sight. The two listened as their footsteps in the snow sounded further and further away until they were gone.

Troike lowered his musket and listened for a few seconds more. Both he and Erevan held their breath, waiting for the hunters to return, but they never did. The father slung his musket over his shoulder and unsheathed a hunting blade from his belt.

“I’ll get the ballistae. Field dress the wolf, Erevan.” Troike Burkwood handed the silvered knife to his son.

“Alright, sir.” Erevan Burkwood took the knife.

Erevan was careful and surgical with his movements as he cut the wolf's chest open. He removed most of the organs very carefully, dug a hole, and buried them. He then began to pull out major bones, removing them, so the body would be lighter.

Troike dragged the sled down the ridge with both ballistae on it. He pulled the sled next to his son Erevan. The two of them pulled the wolf onto the sled and then each took one of the reins of the sled to drag it.

“Say the incantation.” Troike Burkwood reminded Erevan with a gentle tone.

“Yes father,” Erevan said.

"Porlain." He muttered a spell that decreased the weight of what he carried.

The incantation was in an ancient language only passed down orally, but with the magic his skin glowed blue around his muscles. The glow sunk into his skin, outlining connective tissue, before fading away.

The two easily dragged the siege weapons and the werewolf corpse across the snowy waste. They headed in a curved fashion so as to not head straight home. Erevan knew his father couldn't get them lost. He would just be able to focus on home and know its direction.

Father and son headed through a wooded area and down to a space hidden between two hills. Two buildings lay down there. A three room cabin; two bedrooms and one room that served as the living room, kitchen, and dining room. The other building was a large wooden warehouse with big barn doors.

Erevan ran ahead and opened the barn doors. Troike dragged the ballistae and the body inside. The room was full of alchemical equipment, had a makeshift forge, had engineering workbenches, and had a reloading bench for the alchemical cartridges both of their guns used. Off to one corner by the alchemical supplies were crates full of rats.

Troike and Erevan grabbed the werewolf and hauled its body up onto a table. The table was a dark iron, Erevan knew it was an alloy with a cheaper metal, as the whole table would have been expensive no matter what.

“You should go inside and warm up,” Troike smiled at his son.

“I don’t mind staying,” Erevan said.

“Last time you fought me over the life of a rat.” Troike looked down at Erevan.

Troike’s eyes were understanding, but there were bags beneath them. He spent many late nights in the workshop and the cold was not doing him any good. He hardly took care of himself. Yet he knew the worried look of his son and sighed.

“That was over a year ago,” Erevan said.

“Eleven months,” Troike corrected him.

“Okay, I’m sorry about that time. But I want to learn,” Erevan shrugged.

“Alright," Troike nodded to him.

“Heat the silver up in the forge. Once you have it set up and its melting, bring me the wolfsbane. I need to keep trying,” Troike sighed.

“We’ll figure this out dad. We’ll cure whatever is killing you.” Erevan grabbed his father’s hand.

“It may just be age, son," Troike said.

“Then we will make a bigger ballista and force a god to give you an immortal life.” Erevan walked to a rack of metal bars.

He pulled the silver out and set it in a stone bucket before hanging it above the forge. Erevan walked over to the bellows.

“No, do it with your mind., Troike ordered.

“It’s quicker this way,” Erevan complained.

“Quicker solutions are not always better."