Epics of This Time

Winter has come to Rus’ of Rus’. Forests and fields are covered in snow; endless expanses turn white. From the prince to the last serf, everyone put on fur coats and stoked the stoves.

And in the middle of the white snows, a huge gray wolf is rushing through the land, and a good young man with a sword-scepter rides on its back. By midday, their path lies toward the warm sea, to Buyan Island, to the great oak—where the death of Koshchei, kept safe inside a stone egg, is preserved.

Hurry, prince Ivan and the Gray Wolf. Trouble is brewing at sunrise.

In Koshchei’s Kingdom, clouds are already thickening; the hordes are already gathering into a terrible fist. On a iron throne sits an old man in an iron crown. Soon the king of undead will fall upon Rus’.

Hek. Hek. Hek.