I, Lycanthrope
Introduction
Humans kill humans all the time. Arguably humanity’s penchant for killing one another is its most salient trait.
The same cannot be said of werewolves. A werewolf is many things, but almost never a killer of other werewolves. Death does occur between werewolves. There are accidents now and again, as with any other group of people. From time to time, in a ritualized battle for supremacy between Alpha wolves for instance, a tooth will dig too deep, or a claw will graze an artery, and a contender will die.
On the other hand, a volitional killing – one werewolf killing another, on purpose, whether pre-meditated or fueled by passion – rarely, if ever, occurs. Werewolves share the instincts of the non-paranormal animals from which they derive half of their name. Like the wolf, they are pack creatures, eager to maintain the equilibrium of the group – aware, both consciously and instinctively – that they are fundamentally at a disadvantage, despite the terror they incite in their human prey.
This hesitance of werewolves to destroy one another often surprises humans I explain it to. Humans tend to view werewolves as mindless, bloodthirsty savages, desirous only of rending flesh and tearing ligament from bone. Of course, in a sense, this conception of the werewolf is historically correct. It is only other werewolves which are spared what is often an all consuming impulse towards destruction.
Of particular interest to the reader of this memoir and ersatz guide may be – and perhaps ought to be, if it is not already – how the new werewolf transitions into this non-aggressive pact with the other members of his or her newfound species. Every werewolf comes to be after already enjoying life, for some amount of time, in human form. Often the newly bitten lycanthrope will harbor immense feelings of negativity toward both their new physical state, as well as the agents of their torment, other werewolves themselves.
In my study of werewolf behavior and clan structures, I have found that the successful socialization of the newly made lycanthrope is highly dependent on the speed with which a newly transformed creature is exposed to other werewolves. If social contact does not occur within 72 hours of their first transformation, the ability for the new lycanthrope to eventually take their place in a pack culture diminishes substantially. If a connection to other werewolves is not made within the first three transformations, then one is unlikely ever to be made.
The vagueries of werewolf biology – most likely an acute sense of smell and hearings – tended to make the above scenario highly unlikely in practice, until modern times. Most werewolves who survived to three transformations did so by successfully joining a pack. Conversely, most werewolves who did not successfully join a pack, generally did not survive past three transformations.
I was bitten by a werewolf during an attack on my village in Northern England. Their pack was too small, and the soldiers garrisoned there too strong. My father was killed, but no werewolf survived the encounter – until I became one myself on the next full moon. Royal edict commanded all subjects bitten by werewolves were to be killed, and that would have been my fate had my mother not seen the deep bite I hid under my heavy coat. She planned ahead for my transformation, paying men to come and dig a great pit beneath our home. When the moon changed me, I was hidden away, deep in the ground, my bloodthirsty howls absorbed by the dirt.
Twice more I transformed, sealing my fate as a lone wolf. But my mother wanted me to be more – she wanted me to avenge my father, to become the empowered agent of her hatred. Thus did I grow from a boy to a man, training for weeks at a time, over the course of a childhood, disappearing into my pit when the full moon came, learning to control my wildest animal instincts, until I was full grown and ready for the hunt.
My name is Whalen Blackwood, and I am a 569 year old werewolf. For about 450 of those years I was also the preeminent werewolf hunter in the world. I have killed countless hundreds of my own kind, acts for which I feel no remorse. The werewolves I dispatched were savage creatures, wanton murderers of men, women, and children – good people like my father. To be sure, those beasts were products of a crueler, more ignorant time – but that is no excuse for what they allowed themselves to become.
Today, I am old. In human form, my skin is loose, my body hurts, my joints creak when I move. Transformed, I’m told, I look like a mangy dog and, mostly just sleep until the sun comes up. As time has changed me, so too has it changed the world. Lycanthropy is no longer a hidden thing, a whispered rumor, but a vividly confirmed fact of life. Advancements in human technology, in medicine, communications, and weaponry, as well as the growth and spread of the human population, have driven werewolves into one of three places – the spotlight, deep isolation, or the grave – with most arriving at the latter option.
I decided to pen this book at the insistence of a very good friend who, although she shall remain nameless, knows precisely who she is. This book is roughly broken into two parts: the first is the “scholarly” portion, including a guide to the biology, history, and culture of werewolves or lycanthropes. The second is for those of you with an appetite for adventure seasoned with a heaping spoonful of violence – a memoir of sorts, in which I shall endeavor both to entertain and educate the reader by recounting the wildest hunts of my youth.
As a rule, werewolves do not kill other werewolves, but, as a result of my mother’s tireless efforts, I am the exception.
Without further ado, lets begin.
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