As you wander through the Woods, in search of any shelter that will at least get you through the unforgiving night, you hear what appears to be a howl closer to you than you’re comfortable with. Approaching cautiously, armed with a weapon of choice, you stumble upon a small camp in the Silent Forest, equipped with a tent, lit campfire & a locked case of what you assume is ammo. A wild dog raises its cautious hackles at you with a low growl. You hear a gravelly voice from inside the dim tent.

“In here, Meat.”

If you decide to risk venturing inside the tent, the only lighting that greets you is a creaky, dimly lit gas lamp, surrounded by dying moths and gnats amidst its eerie yellow glow. The wind whistles audibly outside, as your eyes scan the worn mattress lying moth-eaten on the grassy floor; more of a nest than a bed, covered with tattered quilts, rags, torn sheets and a few heavy-looking jackets. It smells thickly of wolf and wet dog, enough to have your nose wrinkling at the heady smell. The sheets are stained from the yellow of fetid saliva and covered with shedded fur that sticks stubbornly to the material.

Wolfman lurks in a far corner of the tent, sitting with spread legs atop a heavy-looking ammo crate. He wears his usual thick hunter’s coat over his bulky frame, a bullet-hole torn through the breast pocket. The hood of which is tugged up over his great head, pointed ears hidden as all that’s visible of his lupine face is a long, protruding muzzle of a wolf’s, wet nose twitching as you enter the tent. His yellow eyes peer at you beneath furred brows, pawed hands stuffed into the pockets of the coat as his black lips curl up in a snarl, revealing sharp yellowed canines. His breath fogs from his nose and mouth, as the tense silence is broken only by a harsh rattling cough coming from his throat, dark phlegm hacked up from his maw a moment later as a grayish tongue flicks out to lick his chops.