There are rumors of werewolves hidden among the people of Aldcroft. Fahd’ali approaches the town with caution, the full moon hidden by fog rolling in from the west. Bow drawn, arrow notched, and daedric companion at the ready he takes a deep, steadying breath before pressing forward. The town is quiet; although it’s several hours until midnight, even the local tavern is lifeless. The only sound is that of the sorcerer’s leather boots padding across the vacant, cobbled street.
Nearby a door shuts swiftly, startling Fahd’ali. He hears the turning of a lock then all is quiet once more. Before pressing deeper into the town square Fahd’ali closes his eyes, listening for predatory sounds but hearing nothing; only stillness. The air is stale, warm. He slips further into an awareness of his environment, allowing his senses to wander through the palpable tension in the atmosphere.
Suddenly, the howl of a werewolf cuts through the rigid void. The moon, no longer hidden by the fog bathes Fahd’ali in a morose light, plainly marking him as the only living soul foolish enough to be out in the open. Off in the distance the creature howls once more, this time with an eagerness for the hunt. Fahd’ali raises his bow and whispers incantations of wind and lightning.
He is ready; he is afraid.