On Second Thought The night air was hushed, for the surrounding wildlife that inhabited this forest instinctively feared him. Samson crouched 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 of the opening door, serving as a rancid teaser of what awaited inside: the cloying smoke was joined by the odor of stale beer and various other noxious alcohols and the salty musk 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
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, stark naked. Her cinnamon-fire fur glowed in the barely-illuminated room, and did nothing to protect her modesty. The two mounds of muscle above her legs pumped up and down with hypnotic reciprocation. She flicked her bushy tail and peered back over her shoulder to look at him. Him. Sammy hunched down onto all fours and behind his table and thanked fortune that his own species had robust coats that prevented him from seeing such seductive details of his packmates, and prevented her from seeing the red heat that emanated from his face.
A secret club for “thropes” only in San Francisco seemed like the place any werewolf had to check out at least once, but Samson found it overwhelming to the point of regret. And so he had slunk off into the farthest, darkest corner of the room just to observe. The majority of thropes here were werewolves, of course, since they were the most common species. But off in one corner,