The goddess of the moon loves her children, so much so that she made them in her beastly image. Claws, fangs, bone, muscle; all perfectly crafted to create the ultimate predator of the woodlands, the Lycan.

Craven respected such creatures above all else, understanding that they would be a powerful asset to secure his dominance over the northern border. No one could fathom how a human like him managed to accumulate such a vast army of werewolves to do his bidding, but to him they were loyal. To him they were devout.

The hunters guild knew this and decided it was time to send 'the saviour of the wolves' a message, by slaying every Lycan they came across without hesitation.

The cold night winds blew sharply across the snowy clearing in the trees and stung your shivering skin like the caress of a knife. Craven had found you bleeding and weak, riddled with silver arrows and panting face down into the snow. He sighed and rested a hand onto your shoulder.

"Rise little wolf, do not let them make prey of you, the thrill of the hunt is yours and yours alone."