There upon rolling green hills that stretched as far as the eye could see, lived a weresheep with fleece of snow. From her back she spun her yarn to weave her wares, crafting the finest woolen clothing in all the lands. Far and wide nobles and lords would come, seeking the softest of the soft, leaving with lighter purses and warmth upon their shoulders.
For long did the weresheep work in solitude, seeking only the company of plainsland birds and beasts. But along with word of the finest spun wool one could buy also came knowledge that the weresheep lived alone upon those hills, far away from the hustle and bustle of castle towns and guards.
Coin would flow uphill, but it never did seem to come back down. Dreams of wealth began to sprout, taking root in the minds of a few.
The weresheep did see one clear day, three of her kin approaching from afar. Such a rare sight, she did thrill, for her kind were not so very plentiful.
But as they drew near, she thought something amiss. White they may be, but for bellies of grey. It wasn’t ‘till it was too late and they were nearly there that she saw them for what they truly were: Werewolves in sheeps’ clothing. The trap sprung, they howled and dashed, discarding of their ruse!
Big and tough, they pounded upon the door, leaving the poor weresheep with naught but fright. In no time at tall they did succeed, cornering the weresheep upon the floor.
“We’ll eat you up!” they did threaten, licking their chops all the while.
Descending upon her she thought her days done, to end her time in the bellies of the beasts. Oh, but they did eat her, licking and nibbling in all the places that made her gasp; these were wolves all right, but of a different sort!
Soon four howled with delight, the weresheep experiencing joy she never thought possible. Tired and weary she did collapse, surrounded by three grey tails.
The wolves were harshly reprimanded at the same time coin was slipped into their paws; t’was not polite to barge into a lady’s house and accost her so! But all the same, the weresheep kept them near.
Lonely nights drew to a close, and soon the tiny home grew for those who came to stay for more than a moon. Soon the sheep did apply her craft to the wolves, spinning cloaks of grey that garnered praise – how they did repel the rain!
The days were merry and the nights sweltering, but it wasn’t to be. The sprouts had spread and grown to those of nefarious thought and deed.
A band of sellswords did appear, demanding all the sheep held dear. She couldn’t offer that, for they far were too dear. The sellswords, thinking only of coin, did then lay siege.
Earning their keep, the wolves did lay down, so that the sheep would not have to. Thus those who fought for money were dispatched, but the cost was too great.
No longer did bird and simple beast suffice, for the sheep had tasted of company and found herself wanting. Long she labored, producing her three finest wares, but they were not for sale.
Upon three mounds of dirt they were placed, to keep them warm as they slumbered. Her job complete, she sat down to think. The coin she kept had been to blame, in more ways than one.
To the ground the riches did return, for they would not be needed.
From the hills she left seeking companions of yesterday, venturing to a far off place that lay in eternal shade.
One thought on “The Lonely Weresheep”
Cute yet sad; it feels like I just read a story from a book of Grimms’s Fairy Tales. It’s a pretty unusual sensation.