What follows are the collected tales of the inhabitants of Mordengaard and its demesne, some humorous, some fabulous, some heroic, and all tragic. What these tales have in common is what is known as the Fool's Right of Passage. There are rarely survivors to these little adventures, and so they are reconstructed from what details are known.
A young lad who ran steer for his father in the County Robert north of Mordengaard noticed some missing head from time to time. Now, Mordengaard being virtually lawless and certainly suffering from Predators Fantastic?, decided that he would try his hand at some heroics, and discover the root evil of the loss of his cattle. He noticed that the poor beasts were quite shredded, as if something of great power had torn them limb from limb. Knowing that the Werewolf of Mordengaard had not been seen sometime in the Southern Valley, he supposed that it must have come north to feast upon less wary prey.
Mordigan knew a thing or two about Werewolves, and so girded himself with weapons of silver--a war-hammer, cruel-sharp and silver-plated, and a Goat's Foot?, with some quarrel silver-plated also. For protection he donned an old suit of maille, and leather helm, with hoops of steel, and plated-silver studs. He waited for a full moon, and set out upon the pasture, waiting for his quarry.
The lad had done some hunting, and new that he must arrange both a bait, and an ideal spot from which to kill his prey. To that end, he moved the herd into a valley through which ran a small river. A choke point was at eastern end, and there the river ran deep and swift, and a bridge (Pin Oak Bridge) was constructed. He moved the herd to this area, as he believed this would provide the most difficult escape for the fell beast; he himself he removed probably to some height. By all indications he made a small space for himself at the foot of the southern end of the bridge.
He had not long to wait. From the shadows beneath him a dark hulk lunged forward and snatched at a cow. Mordigan loosed a bolt, which was wide of it's mark. He took up the hammer and descended the valley to the base of the bridge, where he at last met this creature most fell.
Now, I know you are keen to know his fate, but I must digress a bit upon the nature of Werewolves, particularly the nature of the Werewolf of Mordengaard, and perhaps a bit on Old Stone Bridges?. The first thing you should know as that a Werewolf, other things besides, is rather an arboreal creature, and prefers an old forest for it's hunting grounds. It will pick off livestock (the human kind if available) that is nearby to it's forest hunting grounds. The Werewolf of Mordengaard in particular is an unusual beast, and hunts the forest north and east of the towne exclusively. It does not, as far as anyone knows, travel north into the County Robert, not stray far into the open grasslands that make that County such a fine place for raising cattle.
Also, nothing loves an Old Stone Bridge and a fat cow so much as a hungry Bridge Troll. How Mordigan missed the peculiar and loathesome smell of this particular troll is beyond anyone's ken, but the boy had a penchant for Fevers of Romance, Adventure, and I suppose to his doom, of the Hay variety. This being a particularly fine year for weeds, it is not unreasonable that be boy's nose, and perhaps his wits, were addled by a Hay Fever, perhaps even of the Fey variety. Field gnomes are not the nice creatures you might believe them to be. But that is a digression too far, even for this tale.
It is certain that Mordigan landed one good and great blow, the stench upon the head of his hammer, and it's broken haft a testament to the strength he could have possessed as a fine Warrior or Adventurer. What he did not possess was a trebuchet, small army, or a Daylight Artefact. Also, he was not blessed with many lives.
Thus was the fate of Mordigan, a fine lad whose time came too early, and who was not blessed with the gift of immortality. His doom should have been a lesson to other lads and young men in the Valley, but given the number of Tales to be told, I am afraid it was not.