On Second ThoughtThe night air stilled. The wildlife that inhabited this forest instinctively feared the man crouching naked in a shallow stream of cool water, scrubbing the blood off his body with his bare hands and pondering the last seventy-two hours of events that had brought him there.
Cigarette smoke swirled out the door, serving as a rancid teaser of what awaited inside: the cloying smoke laced with the odor of stale beer and other noxious alcohols and the salty musks of unwashed humans and the gestalt of perfumes and colognes of those who did have a sense of hygiene. The dim lighting at least made the grease and grime saturating the walls and wooden furniture harder to see and thus, a bit easier to ignore. Country music strummed from a juke box in the corner, thus completing the typical bar scene.
Samson balked at the entrance, and not just because he had to duck his head down to get through. “Do we really hafta do this?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered a voice behind him.
Apex PredatorThe deer had not a chance against its killer. One minute, the old buck was munching languidly on summer grass so lush that its juices dribbled out of his mouth as he ate. The sun's rays beamed down through the treetops, warming the forest floor to the perfect temperature--it was a perfect day. Until a twig behind him snapped. From downwind emerged a dark mass of fury and teeth and before the buck could even take flight, its legs buckled under the impact of almost two hundred pounds brought to bear onto his back. Dark hands grasped his muzzle and an antler. And with a twist, the old male just past the zenith of his life reached its inevitable conclusion.
The killer was nothing less than a werewolf, dark brown in color. He growled in satisfaction as he got off the fresh carcass and stood. From the nearby foliage emerged a smaller werewolf, black with white speckles here and there. The larger werewolf hunched down and flattened his ears in respectful submission.
"Good work, Phoenix," comm
FurorEvery year, spring brings new life and new opportunities, but with these also come new threats, new dangers. On a warm spring night, deep within a Montana forest, yet another of these primal dramas has come to fruition. Flora and fauna which had established their own footholds on life are trampled and pushed aside underneath three werewolves without a second thought. At this moment, The Chase is their only concern.
This deep within the forest, the green foliage is dense enough to snap back in the face of the immense brown werewolf charging his way through it. But he shrugs off the blows, his drive and focus more effective than any painkillers. His fur catches in the branches, leaving behind coffee-colored knots snared amongst the leaves, and even that barely slows down his pace. He feels like half a tree is tangled up within the braid that hangs off the back of his head. But as great a nuisance as the forest growth can be, it has to be doubly hindering for his quarry ahead. The disrupt
The WerefoxShe strode—no, glided—across the dance floor, striking in her bold nakedness. Her cinnamon fur glowed like fire despite the minimal illumination, and did nothing to protect her modesty. Her posterior pumped two mounds of muscle up and down, up and down, with hypnotic reciprocation as she walked… that is, until she stopped, flicked her bushy tail and peered back over her shoulder to look at him. Him. Sammy hunched behind his table, and thanked providence that his own species had robust coats that prevented him from seeing such intimate details on his packmates. It also prevented her from seeing the red heat that emanated from his face.
San Francisco’s secret “thropes”-only club seemed like the place every werewolf had to experience at least once, but Samson felt himself experiencing was overwhelm and regret. And so he had slunk off into the farthest, darkest corner of the room just to observe. The club seemed to understand its clientele&
MisbegottenThe crisp forest air in the Anti-Meridian hours was tainted by the sultry sounds of growls and guttural screams and the dour smell of blood. Someone was being murdered in the borders of Argo, and two werewolves, diverted their patrol to ensure their land was not being used as an execution ground. Sammy—known to his brethren as Phoenix—quivered with anxiety as the crisis resonated through the forest, and channeled that nervous energy into his speed.
What they discovered was an unexpected sight, to say the least: two rogue werewolves, gaunt and covered in ragged pelts, beating another to death. Werewolves fighting was an everyday occurrence, but attempting murder inside someone else’s territory was not. The Argo pack did not care for intruders; trouble-making intruders were cast out with extreme prejudice.
He didn’t have time to think before Hatchet howled a battle-cry and charged into the fray. Sammy, urged by instinct and loyalty, followed his mentor. The fracas