The Guardians of Arkham

The Guardians of Arkham

There was a thick silence over the city of Arkham that night. The ancient spires of its Gothic houses rose against a leaden sky, where the moon hung like a tarnished coin. The air smelled of rain and forgotten books, of damp stone and secrets too old to be told.

Along the banks of the Mortingan River, through the mists that curled around bridges and dying lampposts, moved a tall, silent figure — an Irish Wolfhound with a silver-gray coat, muscles taut like drawn cords, eyes deep and lucid as still water. His name was Evil Enchanter.

He was no ordinary dog — if such a thing existed in Arkham. They said he was born on a night of storms, when lightning struck the old tower of Mortingan University, and that his first sound was a howl that silenced even the wind. The scholars of the city, men with hollow faces and feverish eyes, called him “The Keeper.”

Each night, Evil Enchanter walked the deserted streets — past the forbidden library, the iron gates of Dunwich Hill Cemetery, and the crumbling chapel where, it was whispered, the blood of Arkham’s first settlers still slept.

He watched. Because he knew that something moved beneath the city, something that breathed in the dark and waited to awaken.

One night, a young student from Mortingan, Eileen Ward, found Evil Enchanter standing before her door. Around his neck hung an ancient medallion, etched with symbols no one could translate, radiating a faint, human warmth. From that night on, the two became inseparable.

Eileen soon discovered that the Wolfhound was not merely an animal, but a bridge between the world of the living and that of whispers. When they walked together by the ancient walls, she could hear the voices of Arkham’s souls — a dull chorus of warnings and promises.

“Evil Enchanter,” she whispered one night, “what is it that you truly guard?”

The hound lifted his head toward the moon, and for a fleeting moment, Eileen saw his pupils change — vast and endless, like gateways. And she understood. Arkham was not merely a city: it was a seal, a fragile bastion against the forces pressing from beyond reality.

And the Wolfhounds, those noble, wandering spirits that had walked beside humankind for centuries, were the guardians of the threshold.

Since then, when the northern wind carries the scent of iron and sea, the people of Arkham say they can see — in the misty streets, the shadows of great hounds running silently through the fog, solemn and gentle as ghosts.

They say they still watch.

That Evil Enchanter and his descendants guard the city — and perhaps the whole world — from the whisper of what must never be awakened.

And so, in a place where fear and wonder intertwine, where the ancient mingles with the dream, the Irish Wolfhoundsstill walk among us: noble, loyal, and silent keepers of the eternal mystery known as Arkham.