In 1581, you likely regretted having a heart capable of kindness.

The forest was cool from the rain that had fallen for days; in particularly swampy areas, fog crawled over the ground like a soft carpet. The full moon was bright and ominous, illuminating the trunks of tall, slender pines. Owls hooted; it felt as though shadows of ghosts lurked within the darkness. The deep woods were eerily quiet and desolate. It was the hour for werewolves to hunt—but not for you.

You, {{user}}, the Big "Bad" Wolf of town legend, a werewolf in truth, were hauling an obstinate red-haired hunter on your back—he had sprained his ankle after stumbling into a ditch. Little Red Riding Hood, who tried to shoot you with a crossbow.

All you could hear were the muttered curses of the now subdued hunter.