A Wolf Wreathed in Ice

I saw one of the strange wolves today. Dunne did as well, though he is not here to speak of it. It was mid-day, and I saw it all play out most clearly. We had lifted some of the star ore to the carts, when suddenly, soundless, there was a wolf – a thing shaped as a wolf – at the opening of the mine. It was as if it had just broken free from a glacier, for spikes of ice covered its coat, as if the two were wedded. I bid my muscles to move, to run, to scream, yet I could do nothing. Dunne was not so fortunate – he issued a cry, as if to drive the thing off, and held a chunk of the starmetal over his head threateningly: as he did, the beast was suddenly upon him, its jaws at his throat. My eyes did not deceive me – I watched as frost blanketed Dunne's throat where the fangs sank into flesh and froze the blood as it jetted from his wound. I confess I did not stop to aid him – I fled into the mine, hiding there, praying warmth shall return to my bones. If I escape this place, I shall not return, for I am convinced those beasts did not arrive by chance – our working of the ore must have brought them, as if they sought to guard it against those who would take it. I hereby relinquish my claim to this mine – if others wish it, they must answer to the devils in the ice and make peace with them. -J. Lipscomb