So there he did meet them, and there they did clash. And Old Mad ’Shacry dressed the mountain in ash. His fire ran in rivers. It melted the snow. There was no escaping the glowing hot flow. With teeth bared and dripping, the drake trapped the Fae, laughing with cruelty above the warriors he’d slay. But the wolves held their ground, all dauntless and brave, determined to send Old ’Shacry to his grave. Swift came the chant, then, so all close could hear. A war cry of old that strengthened those near. The wolves ran the charge
