Nearly threescore years ago, I was a child with six old brothers. Big as oak trees, all of them veterans of the second ogreswar, and my father the biggest of them all. Come one wolfstime, he decided to go out and take on the wolf. A different wolf back then, of course, but just as fearsome. They went out there to protect me. I was supposed to be asleep, but I crawled out on the roof to watch and lay down in the thatch. They had the beast surrounded, the seven of them, with spears all pointed in at it. Then it started. It was lunging. Not at the men, at the spears, grabbing with its teeth, breaking the shafts. They stabbed it with the splintered end, but it didn't matter. It tore their throats so fast that not a one of them got a chance to scream or pray... or say goodbye. When my father died, I tumbled from the roof, and I landed in the blood in front of the wolf. I felt its breath on my face. Then it clamped its hot jaw on my arm, and I rolled away.