They say dead men don't tell tales and that evil wolves cry salty tears. It's an old saying, I remember my father telling me it by the campfire, as his cauldron bubbled and brewed whatever illicit elixirs he seemed to consume at an unfathomable rate. Back then I never understood father's vices so when a young me put the hot steaming mug of coffee to my lips and ingested the foul bitter liquid, I decided that all adults were crazy and I would leave them to their workings.
My father had pounded me on the back, his sixth cup of the past five minutes being knocked back as he stared at me with alert eyes. "John my boy, coffee? It's the heart of the land and when you drink coffee - you will survive" I had just looked up at him, my big eyes looking into those hard - almost manic eyes of a hunter. His firm broad shoulders, the spears he carried across his back - this was my father, the protector, the hunter, the gatherer, the brewer.
The hunter turned towards the forest, the tall foreboding trees that framed our campsite. I had asked my father about that too once, why we didn't cut the trees down for wood to keep us warm but rather snapped off the branches to fuel our fires. "There are reasons for everything John, may the Owl Sisters pray that you never find out why".
Yes, I loved my father - my mother too. Her big billowing skirts and calm voice framed a lot of my upbringing. But the day I won't forget is the day that I met a dog. I'd been skipping past our chickens, the good boys had been making eggs for me to eat in the morning with the fat pigs that my father and mother loved to cull. I'd dove through a tanning rack and under the skins of boars before slamming right into the wooden gates of our property.
I had taken some time to recover before I felt the hot wet tongue of something against my face. I'd woke to stare into the eyes of a furry face, staring at me through the gaps in the fence. I had never seen a dog before, but father told me he'd had one in the days before he had me and mother. "Hey boy" I said stretching out a hand towards the dog who eagerly licked my hand with it's warm wet tongue. My arm could just fit through the gap in the fence, a benefit of being a child and the only one.
"John?" a voice called behind me "John what are you doing?" it was mother, she roughly grabbed me by the hand and towed me away from the fence and away from the dog. I will never forget her worried look as she ushered me into our house and slammed the door shut.
Dusk came and father still hadn't returned. "John come away from the window" mother's voice broke the silence of the dusk. It always got quiet closer to the night. When the monsters unraveled from the shadows and the screams of other hunters echoed into the night. Through the light of the setting sun I made out something at our gate. It was a man but it wasn't father. His face was gaunt, his eyes were wild but his clothes were well-pressed and his belly full.
There was something wrong, something off about that man and his eyes. "Mother" I said pointing "there's somebody at the gate". Her posture stiffened, her eyes grew afraid and she too looked out the window as the sun vanished behind the trees.
At first, everything seemed to be still. The bubbles in the cauldron froze, the smoldering embers of our campfire stuck mid crackle and the anxious breath of mother catching in her throat.
The man at the gate seemed to be frozen too, staring away from where the sun had hidden - towards the glowing white orb that bathed the trees in a cold light. It was then that the stranger seemed to snap forward, his spine cracking as it elongated him forward like some sort of worm. His hands catching him as he fell as his arms seemed to break outwards like the wishbones from the chickens.
"John get away" my mother whispered - but I could not - would not. As I watched the stranger transform in front of me. His jaw unhinging - stretching widening, his teeth growing too big for his mouth and those eyes. I will never forget those eyes. Yellow orbs that had blossomed from the center of his pupils - feral and wild. There was a point that he looked like some bald cat, hand curved into talons, body thrown out of proportions, clothes ripped and torn away.
What stood before me as tufts of thick black hair grew in through skin was not a cat. But a wolf. A werewolf, the thing that father's stories had always been of. The primordial hunter of the night that wore human flesh during the day like I may wear a shirt - the Werewolf howled towards the moon and flexed a clawed hand as if testing it for the first time.
It shivered and swung, striking at the gate and cutting through it like butter. Pulling away the wood splinters and hinges that seemed insignificant now. It's hulking form strode into our campsite with ease, it's feet stomping out the glowing embers of our fire. It stood outside our cabin and looked through the windows at us. Those feral yellow eyes met my own and that was when the features of a wolf were scarred into my mind.
There was something tranquil in those eyes. In amongst the berserk fury that drowned it out like an ocean - I was lost in them and barely noticed as the lips of the wolf seemed to pull back revealing incisors in a mocking smile. My mother pushed me and time finally seemed to enter the regular flow of motion as I was thrown across the room as the glass that had been in front of us - shattered.
The Wolf killed my mother in one blow, shearing her limbs from her torso and sending blood pooling around her feet. The last I remember of my mother's eyes was that look of disbelief as the Werewolf's jaw locked around her head and pulled it from her shoulders the spray of blood staining my face.
This was it.
As the beast turned and faced me - it's feral eyes meeting mine. I knew I would die.
I closed my eyes.
"By Falanor, NO!"
A rush of wind behind me and my eyes opened to see the beast pinned beside me by a weighted net, it's limbs pinned to the wall, it's eyes frantic and wild.
I stared out through the shattered window.
There my father stood.
"John" he said softly
"Run"