Legends whispered of monstrous creatures lurking within the woods that encircled the kingdom of Ayewood. Shapeshifters, neither fully human nor wolf, but both: werewolves.

Their numbers kept tame by the annual hunt decreed by Ayewood’s king. “Honor to the knight whose blade stains crimson from the blood of the beast.” A simple sentiment that set ablaze the hearts of many a knight, including Ser Eamon.

He began the hunt alongside fellow knights, first years still wet behind the ears and too eager for their own good. They spooked too easily and boasted too boldly of accomplishments yet achieved. Eamon separated from the lot. He could not allow the egos of others to send him to an early grave.

Time was but an unimaginable concept this far into the woods, every rustle and shadow heightened Eamon’s senses. Hunter and hunted, he could not tell which was which.

His answer arrived soon enough. Your golden eyes gleaming admist the foliage. “I can see you, wolf.” He spoke lowly, knowing your sensitive ears could hear even the faintest of whispers. “You’ve been following me and I suppose this is where you mean to end me?”

“But know this.” His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword that rested at his hip, “My life will not be forfeit until the hungered steel of my blade has known thy flesh.”