The Werewolves of Ossory

The Last Howl of Ossory

The forests of ancient Osraige were once thick with towering oaks and whispering birches, the River Nore weaving through the land like a silver thread. Before Kilkenny Castle cast its long shadow over the valley, the land belonged to the wild—untamed and ruled by those who walked between two worlds. They were neither fully men nor fully beasts. They were the children of Laignech Fáelad, the first werewolf of Ossory.

The Rise of the Wolf-King

Long before the coming of the mortal kings, Laignech Fáelad was both feared and revered. His people were warriors, bound by blood and ancient rites, protectors of the land and its sacred places. Under his rule, the Osraige thrived, hunting under the moon’s pale light, their senses keener than any mortal’s. They did not see their nature as a curse but as a gift—one that made them one with the land.

The druids of Osraige whispered that Laignech’s power came from an ancient pact, struck between the first of his kind and the spirits of the deep woods. As long as the forests stood, so too would the bloodline of the wolf endure. It was said that under the full moon, Laignech could call his kin with a single howl, summoning an army of warriors who fought with the strength of ten men. The mortal chieftains feared him, but none dared challenge him.

But power invites jealousy. And jealousy breeds war.

The Coming of the Mortal Kings

The outside world was changing. In the east, the High Kings of Ireland waged war to unite the land under a single banner. Christianity spread, bringing with it new rulers and new laws. The ancient ways—the druidic rites, the offerings to the old gods, the veneration of nature—were fading.

Then came the mortal kings of Ossory. With steel in their hands and priests at their side, they sought to claim what had always belonged to the wolves. They came in waves, first as envoys, offering peace in exchange for submission. But Laignech Fáelad, wise and proud, knew better. He knew that men did not bargain with wolves—they sought to tame them.

The forests burned. The first war of Ossory began.

The wolf-warriors fought fiercely, striking from the shadows, tearing through the mortal ranks with unnatural speed and fury. But the men of Kilkenny were relentless. They brought war hounds, bred to track and kill. They brought silver, cursed with holy prayers. And, most of all, they brought fire—fire that reduced the ancient forests to smoldering ash.

With each battle lost, the wolves were driven further into the wilds. The great standing stones where they once performed their sacred rites were shattered. The rivers that once ran red with the blood of the hunt now carried the corpses of fallen kin. One by one, the old gods fell silent, their voices drowned beneath the tolling bells of the churches that rose where groves once stood.

Then, on the darkest night of winter, Laignech Fáelad fell.

The Fall of the Wolf-Blood

The battle raged beneath a sky thick with storm clouds, the moon hidden behind a veil of darkness. Laignech and his warriors made their final stand in the heart of the last untouched forest. The air was thick with the scent of blood and burning wood as the mortal kings advanced, their soldiers clad in chainmail, their swords gleaming with silver.

For hours, the wolves fought, their howls echoing across the valley. But they were too few. Too weary. Too broken.

In the end, it was not steel that felled Laignech Fáelad, nor fire or silver. It was betrayal.

One of his own—a wolf who had abandoned the old ways and sworn loyalty to the new kings—led the mortals to their sacred den. Laignech, caught between battle and escape, was struck down, his heart pierced by a spear blessed by a Christian priest. His body did not turn to dust or vanish into legend. He bled, just as any mortal would.

As he fell, he whispered a single curse:

“The wolves of Ossory will rise again. When the forests return, so shall we.”

His warriors, seeing their king slain, scattered into the night, vanishing into the deepest corners of the land. Some fled west, to the mountains of Munster. Others crossed the sea, carrying their curse to distant lands. But most disappeared, slipping into legend, waiting for the time when their kind might roam free once more.

The Last Howl

Centuries passed. The forests of Osraige turned to farmland. Kilkenny Castle rose upon the land, a monument to the mortal kings who had claimed victory. The people forgot the old ways, dismissing the werewolves of Ossory as nothing more than myths told to frighten children.

But myths do not die.

One winter’s night, long after the last of the wolf-blooded had been thought extinct, a single figure stood atop the ruins of an ancient dolmen, staring down at the castle that had stolen his kingdom.

His name was Rían mac Laignech—the last of the wolf-blood. His golden eyes burned with the fury of a thousand moons, his hands trembling between human and clawed forms. The curse of his ancestors ran thick in his veins, but he was alone. The age of the wolves had ended.

Yet, as the first rays of dawn touched the battlements of Kilkenny Castle, a sound broke the stillness of the morning.

A single, mournful howl.

A lament for a kingdom lost.

A warning to those who thought the past was dead.

A promise that the wolves of Ossory would return.

Some say the last of the wolf-blood vanished after that night, his form dissolving into mist, his spirit bound to the wind. Others whisper that his descendants still walk among the people of Kilkenny, hiding their true nature, waiting for the forests to reclaim what was once theirs.

And on the coldest nights, when the wind howls through the trees and the shadows grow long, some claim to hear it still—

The last howl of Ossory.