Silver light surrounded the Temple of the Moonmaiden’s Glory, the visible light of the barrier that had warded off all comers since the time of the orcish war that had almost succeeded in destroying the temple. When they had come so close to achieving their revenge.

The Orcs had not been of the Faithful, not part of the Hunt. But that didn’t matter. They only needed a couple of guides to nudge them that way, with promises of glory and slaughter. Their devotion to their savage gods made them easy to manipulate. Hunting dogs to drive the prey into the waiting arms of the Hunters.

And then it had all come apart.

Oh, it had been so perfect. The orcs had drunk from the Cup of the Wolf, and been changed, just as they were supposed to. Not mere werewolves, like if they were bitten. No, they were more, far more than that.

For the Cup of the Wolf was an artifact of dark power, taking the strength of the Dire Wolf as the base for its version of the Curse, and infusing it with the blood of a demon. The result was a creature with the ruthless savagery of an orc, the wicked cunning of a wolf, and the fell power of a denizen of the lower planes, all guided by the will of the Beastlord. They had been the perfect fodder to throw before the temple’s defenders.

And they had failed.

Oh, they had swept through the woods, slaughtering the defenders of both the town and the temple alike. The few survivors of the town had sheltered on the lake, clinging to boats and any debris that might possibly float, while the town had burned. They didn’t matter. The defenders of the cursed moon goddess’s temple, however? They had been hunted down and slaughtered to the last, their flesh feeding the orcish warriors.

It had been a glorious slaughter to watch, seeing the Selunites fall. But the orcs had failed at their most important task, the one given to them when they succumbed to the power of the Cup. They failed to capture the Temple, and desecrate its halls, destroying its connection to the moon goddess and weakening her grip upon the mortal plane.

Instead, even as the leaders of the warband broke into the temple itself, the barrier descended, cutting them off from even the eyes of the gods. No one knew what was happening inside the barrier. A complete failure.

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Thirteen years ago, the barrier began to weaken. He had known, then, that the time was coming, but he was patient, and stalked his prey, laying traps and snares as he did so. There was no point in moving then, when it would just invite discovery and destruction.

Now, though, the barrier was almost broken. The silver wall had retreated almost to the temple’s steps, and a bloody red began streaking through it, corrupting it. Only a little longer, just a couple hours, and…

There was a shattering sound that was felt more than heard. It was no physical thing, but a force of magic being broken. Looking up to the sky, he snarled. The moon was no longer full and bloody crimson, but pale and waxing! The Ritual of the Blood Moon had been broken!

But the only way that would have happened is if the Shrine had fallen. It had to be the work of those adventurers that had made it to Moonwater a few nights back. He would have to prepare for them. True, the ones guarding it were not his strongest fighters, but they were loyal, and had been faithfully advancing the plan. They would not have fallen to just any adventurers.

He turned and analyzed the barrier once again. What he saw was encouraging. The crimson was still mixed with the silver, eating away at it. The barrier was still going to fall. It would just take a couple days instead of a couple hours, but that was fine. He could make do with that.

This was a setback. It wouldn’t keep him from attaining the artifacts that had been lost when the Temple was sealed. There were five items of great power in the temple, according to the ancient lore. Two were powerful relics of Selune. He cared not about them, beyond the satisfaction he would have in their corruption or destruction. No, it was the others that interested him more.

The Bloodspear of Gruumsh was a powerful unholy artifact of the orcish god. If he recovered it, and turned it over, then the orcs of the Black Marsh would be most… grateful. Such gratitude would be very useful.

The Claws of Malar, the personal weapons of Ran Frostclash, demigod son of the Beastlord himself, would be his, to wield in the Lord of the Hunt’s name. Once he had his hands on those legendary blades, he would be unstoppable! Not just Moonwood, but Northport as well would fall to his Hunt, the prey ripped apart by claw and fang. With them, he would call such a hunt as had not been organized since the days before the Great Troubles!

The Black Blade was the final artifact known to be lost in the temple. The Doomsinger had been the last known wielder of the blade, and it was lost with her in the temple. He didn’t bother thinking of it. The blade was known to be a difficult one, unwilling to take just any master. So strict were the requirements that he doubted any could truly wield it. Still, few could claim such a trophy for their hoard.

Shaking his head, he turned his thoughts away from the pleasurable thoughts of the spoils of his hunt, and back to the plans to finish it. The barrier would come down in time. The Blood Moon ending early wouldn’t change that. In fact, it might even be better this way.

The blood craze caused by the moon had made people more susceptible to the Curse, locked them in their hybrid forms, and gave them the power of warriors, where before they had been farmers, fishermen, and, rarely, hunters. It made them easy to control and command, but it also locked them into a lesser form. That was fine for dealing with villagers, but it clearly was not enough for a team of adventurers.

It was fortunate, then, that he had a plan already.