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The full moon casts a pale blue light across the rugged white landscape. Tall pine trees cling to the rocky ground, branches stirring, shedding their cold white burden as the wolves breathe past. The pack is on the move, and the land is trembling beneath their step. They move with purpose, something is not as it was before. There! An affront; a boat pulled ashore, a small group of fur-clad prey around a campfire, round shields and axes in sight. From the treeline the windwolves move, silent, swift, cold gusts of dark shadow, spirits of malice descending upon the men with claws of ice and fangs of doom. A huge load of pictures and musings to be found below