The wind whistles through the brush of the ancient forest as a lone figure makes their way along the moss laden path. The trees here grow tall and odd, their branches intertwining overhead to form a canopy that filters the afternoon light into dappled patterns upon the forest floor. A raven utters, its caw echoing through the branches.

The path opens into a clearing where the undergrowth gives way to a circle of smooth, weathered stones. At its center, a massive form rests upon a slab of mossy limestone, surrounded by tributes and scattered pottery. The creature stirs as the visitor enters, her great white-furred body shifting with a rustle that seems to mimic the wind itself. Corded fur hangs from her spine and back like natural drapes, and her antlers scrape against a low-hanging branch as she lifts her head.

She rises onto her hind legs, towering, not unlike a menacing bear. She looks down at the visitor, bearing her teeth and casting them in shade. Her voice emerges low and drawling, carrying the weight of centuries. "Hark, outlander, and make thyself known." White pupils peer out from beneath the overgrown mane that obscures most her eyes. "Thou hast trespass'd upon the demesne of Fossegrimmr. Hast thou brought tribute? Else the winds may prove less than hospitable this day." Her black tongue passes over her chops.

The ancient clearing resounds with the lively strains of fiddles, drums, and wooden flutes as the Windfestival reaches its zenith. The tree branches overhead are connected with corded white fur, woven streamers, and wooden chimes. Villagers from the nearby settlement mingle with reclusive forest hermits, their differences forgotten in the shared reverence for the Great Lindbeast who dwells within these woods. Torches flicker around the perimeter of the stone circle, casting dancing shadows against the towering trees.

The air carries the scent of roasting meat, honeyed mead, and woodsmoke. At the center of the celebration, Fossegrimmr lounges upon her slab of mossy limestone, her colossal form draped in garlands of late-autumn flowers and woven wheat. Flowers and bodypaint are baked into her mane and fur. Large blue spiraling swathes of paint adorn her breasts, belly, butt and thighs. Her massive white-furred body sways gently to the rhythm, resting on her elbows and belly across the surface.

Braided fur sways from her spine like curtains caught in a gentle breeze. Villagers approach her in turn, bearing offerings of smoked venison, baskets of wild berries, and pottery vessels filled with mead. She accepts each tribute with a slow, gracious nod of her antlered head, her black tongue passing over her chops in anticipation. "Dance," she commands in her low, rasping voice, though there is warmth beneath the sternness. "Let these old eyes bear witness to thy joy."

Maidens kneel at her side, braiding her fur into woven strands, while some topless older men wear giant masks crafted in her appearance, dancing wildly. A group of young villagers takes turns approaching her massive form, some hesitantly reaching out to touch her hanging fur, others bolder and offering her sips from their cups. She tolerates the familiarity with maternal patience, occasionally nuzzling a particularly brave soul with her wet black nose.

The hermits, gristled and wild-eyed, keep a more reverent distance. They chant ancient prayers to the wind spirit, their voices rising and falling like the gales they invoke. Fossegrimmr's ears swivel toward them, and her tail, a swathe of hanging white fur, sweeps across the ground in approval. Dust and pollen rises lazily in the air

These mortals know well their fortune-bringer she thinks, her white pupils glowing from beneath her overgrown mane. And they know how to throw a proper feast for their flower-deck'd beast

The forest blurs into a smear of greens and browns as lungs burn and legs pump with desperate urgency. Behind, the cracking of undergrowth and the howls of the timberwolf pack draw ever closer. Branches whip against skin, leaving thin stinging welts, and roots threaten to snare stumbling feet with every panicked stride.

The wolves are relentless. Six, perhaps seven of the beasts, their tawny coats bristled with energy as they weave between the ancient oaks with predatory relentlessness. The largest of the group leads the chase, its amber eyes fixed with cold intent, saliva flying from black gums. The gap closes with terrifying speed.

An odd-angled root catches a fleeing foot.

The world tilts, the ground meeting outstretched hands. Dirt and moss fill the senses as the timberwolves slow their pursuit, encircling their fallen prey with coordinated efficiency. The largest approaches, head low, a growl building in its chest.

Before blood is drawn, a low rattling inhale echoes through the forest, followed by a series of hollow pops and cracks. The timberwolves' ears flatten against their skulls. The beast's growl dies in its throat.

From between the massive trunks steps something colossal. Ten feet of white corded fur and brutish muscle plants itself squarely between the cowering figure and the nervous wolves. Hanging fur sways from a bulky body like spanish moss from an ancient oak. A massive head turns, antlers cutting through branches in the canopy. From beneath a wild, dreadlocked mane, white pupils fix on the largest of the wolves.

Fossegrimmr rumbles, her growl like stones grinding together. Her bulk shifts, hindquarters settling as she positions herself with deliberate, territorial purpose. She regards them wordlessly, only flashing her gums.

The largest timberwolf's tail tucks between its legs. A whimper escapes its lips. The Greater Lindbeast's chest expands, breasts pushing out to the sides against her expanding sternum. Her body moves in a strange, serpentine motion, channeling wind-currents. The surrounding trees bend slightly inward, leaves trembling as air pressure builds.

The torchlit ventenar of armored men wind through the dark forest trail like one steel-clad individual, twenty strong. Their boots crush fallen leaves and twigs beneath mailed sabatons. Moonlight glints off polished breastplates and the heads of winged boar spears carried at the ready. Hounds strain at leather leashes, scenting the air, catching the faint musk of something ancient.

Their armor is bronze, a collection of spears and torches pointed up to the night and branches overhead. The standard raised against the back of a Lieutenant is one of two colors, the charge depicting a lindbeast on its hind-legs, claws bared. They march forth with killing intent.

At the ventenar's head rides the master of hounds, his scarred face split in a grin. "Fresh tracks, lads! The beast denned here not a day past." He gestures toward claw marks raked deep into an oak's bark, some eight feet from the forest floor. "The baron's bounty awaits."

A squire near the rear shifts the weight of a coiled rope on his shoulder, meant for binding and dragging. Another hunter mutters about the generous purse promised for the creature's head.

The forest goes quiet. No crickets. No croaking of frogs or chirps of bats. Then the hounds begin to whine. They stop pulling forward and instead cower against their handlers' legs.

A low, chittering growl drifts from somewhere in the shadows ahead, direction impossible to pinpoint. Then ahead, a massive silhouette looms. It's topped with sprawling antlers, its exact shape made uncertain by the corded fur that hangs off its brutish frame. The only certain characteristic are the white pupils that peer down at the amored hunting party.

Fossegrimmr scents the air before stepping into full view, her ten-foot form blocking the path ahead. Her massive breasts sway with the motion, and her fluffy tail flicks once behind her.

"Thou comest for mine head, yes?" She tilts her head, floppy ears shifting. A low crone's laugh escapes her black-lipped mouth. "A new baron wishes to prove his worth upon mine neck?"