For many centuries, the people of the mountains were thought to be a legend. A myth brought together from Nymphs who liked to play tricks on those passed through their forest on the way to the mountains. Years of folklore painted them as beast hidden under human skin, worse than any were could ever be. One with nature and one with the animals, bloodthirsty monsters that would kill any who dared to harm the forest or the mountains.
It wasn’t until the turn of the new century that the people of the lands knew that it was not a myth. There were six tribes hidden away deep in the mountains. They had been dubbed ferals– seem to be bred from humans and elves– maybe with weres. No one knew, and few got close enough to one to even begin to ask the questions so many found on the tip of their tongues. They were a race entirely undocumented for so long, thought to be a myth.
The only individuals ever get close to them… Were elves. Why? They looked the least threateningly and were the closest to nature of all the races that came to see them. It was elves who were allowed in to the mountains to speak with the king of beasts, and it was elves that were granted an opening to come and discuss means of alliance and treaties of good will against common enemies with war brewing right below the surface at the meeting of the leaders
Duncan Ataman was their prince– their heir to take over the king of beasts position once he passed and went to let his soul rest with the moon. The king was his father, a man of strength and skill, while The high priestess was his mother, a woman of dark magic and rage similar to that of the wolves. Duncan was a mixture of the two of them: Pure strength and unbridled rage tied in to his body like missing pieces finding their connection with his birth. He was a warrior by heart, a priest under his mother’s guidance, and a leader by trade, waiting to see what the elves had brought to see him.