Quincey’s worn and notched blade still hung from his hand at the ready as the merchant’s words stung in his ears. He suspected danger lurking in the dark, but his reputation for bad judgment negated his warnings. Quincey spurred Abner and yanked the reins, trying to turn the mount back among the column. The horse snorted, stamped its hooves, and refused to move.

“Damn you, Abner,” Quincey hissed, “not now.”

“Not even that pitiful nag listens to you, Quincey.” The merchant mocked. A streak of shaggy, stinking, and jet black fur engulfed his elegant robes with a deep growl. The caravan master was swept off the wagon to tumble into the damp bushes with a muffled scream and the sickening sounds of predator feasting on prey.

“TO ARMS!” Screamed Quick Quincey the Dishonored as a pack of slobbering werewolves struck the column.

Claws and teeth tore down merchant and mercenary alike in the dense forest. Blades and crossbow bolts opened wounds in the ravenous predators. The soggy trail ran red with blood.