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, 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 tang of blood wafting in the air had drawn Samson Phoenix and Robert Hackett (better known as Hatchet) to the far edge of territory of the Argo pack, and as they drew closer, growls and guttural screams set their hackles on edge. Literally.
It was an unexpected sight, to say the least: two rogue werewolves beating another to death within Argo’s borders. 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. Hatchet howled a battle-cry and charged into the fray. Phoenix, urged by instinct and loyalty, followed his mentor. The fracas had blurred together the strangers’ scents, but he recognized one of them.
For the past week, the rank taint of a stranger on their borders had set Argo on edge. The wanderer had left no territorial markings sending a clear message of d