Chapter 2: The Trek to Myrefall

Seemingly heedless of the crushing defeat that had been dished out to its pack, the remaining wolf snarls and dives forward, but Johan parries at the last moment sparing him from the creature's bloody jaw.

The last of the blood-crazed wolves falls silent in the snow, its unnatural fury extinguished. A tense quiet descends upon the camp, broken only by the party's ragged breaths and the ever-present howl of the wind. The immediate threat is gone, but the encounter leaves a lingering unease. The wolves' aggression, their bloodstained muzzles... it's another dark omen on this already grim journey. Wasting no time, the party packs their meager camp, the image of Myrefall's valley ridge urging them onward.

As they prepare to leave, they notice a significant change: the relentless blizzard that has plagued them for two days has finally begun to break. The wind, though still bitingly cold, has lost much of its violent fury, and the snowfall has dwindled to a light, swirling flurry. Patches of grey sky are visible overhead, and visibility has improved considerably. Wasting no time, the party packs their meager camp, the now clearer image of Myrefall's valley ridge urging them onward.

An hour of cautious travel through the now thinning snows and over treacherous, icy patches brings them to the crest of the ridge overlooking Myrefall. The wind, while no longer a blizzard, still whips sharply across this exposed height, carrying flurries that sting their faces. But through the clearer air, the sight below steals the breath from their lungs – or perhaps it's the acrid smell of old fires and something else, something sickeningly sweet, that catches in their throats.

This isn't the small, bustling village you might remember or have heard tales of. The outskirts of Myrefall are a scene of utter devastation. Houses stand as blackened, skeletal frames, their timbers scorched and collapsed. Others are simply smashed, roofs caved in, walls rent asunder as if by a giant, furious hand. Debris – shattered wood, broken pottery, scraps of torn fabric – litters the snow-choked ground, tossed about like children's toys. A chilling silence hangs over the ruins, punctuated only by the mournful whistle of the wind through broken structures and the occasional creak of a dangerously leaning wall. There are no signs of life, no smoke from chimneys, no voices – only a profound, deathly stillness.

As the party stands at the edge of this nightmare, the wind carries a new sound - a distant, mournful howl that seems to echo off the valley walls. It's not the sound of wolves they heard earlier, but something deeper, more resonant, and somehow... wrong. The sound sends a chill down their spines that has nothing to do with the cold.

The clearing weather, while welcome, offers little comfort in the face of such devastation.