Nerve wracking to know you’re in the presence of a werewolf, but maybe more not to know. Among nephilim, theirs is the most perfect of all human disguises. Seems a waste to me, since they’re the ones who need it least. In a fight, their size and power are unmatched, and they don’t move like any beast you’ve ever seen. That’s because they aren’t just beasts. A beast doesn’t hate you like a shifter does. They don’t fight to destroy, rather than survive, and they don’t howl with enough force to peel paint from metal. They’re rage given form, and nothing prepares you for that. Little wonder they command such respect in this world.

It wasn’t always the case. Their origin is one of the lowest of nobles; not born in the glorious heartland of the mage empires but in the deep forests of what would become the frontiers. It took root in distant villages and towns where magic was not so rampant. Still, it existed, and those who dwelled in the wilds found themselves touched by it. Unlike others that mutated outright, the change that took them was subtle. Those afflicted weren’t even aware, at first. They grew stronger, and faster, but why question that? Why question the vitality, or the hunger, or the nights and neighbors that vanished without explanation? 

It spread like a disease. Savagery claimed minds and bodies, twisting them into a terrible new form. Those that carried it would lose themselves to the most primal urges. Hunt. Kill. Consume. Multiply. By the time anyone with power realized what was happening, it was already too widespread to stop, and entire villages were emptied on the nights of the full moon.

Eventually, the sorcerer-lords got wise to what was happening and sent their forces to purge the infestation. They had the strength, but doing so proved a challenge. Even if you could defeat the mutants in battle, how did you sort out who was who when the sun rose? They didn’t bother, mostly, and wiped out what few surviving humans remained. Meanwhile, the true culprits retreated further into the wilderness and regressed further into beasthood. An entire crude society formed from these renegades; roving monsters eerily similar to the nightmares that would come later. For untold generations they endured, existing as legends and warnings of the animal within us all. That inescapable creature waiting to rip its way out from under the skin. 

When the mage empires collapsed, it was the end of humanity’s dominance of the world, and the dawn of the nephilim’s. But while many strains of immortal sought to conquer their former homes, the werewolves simply moved in. Odd to think. Maybe it’s just a gap in the old texts, but as far as taking power goes, it was about as clean as you like. Maybe that’s due to the nature of the beasts. The werewolves didn’t hunger for dominance; they exerted it without thinking. A simple code to follow. The strong lead, and the rest follow or get eaten. For that perspective, when they filled the place of the sorcerer lords, it wasn’t all that different from what came before. In the face of the horrors that rose around them, the people of the frontier might have even welcomed it.

For the werewolves hadn’t been idle in their exile. Like most nephilim of the time, they had begun to evolve. And, as parodies of the natural world, they had done so with frightening speed. Gone were the days of seemingly ordinary folk losing control and turning to malformed, frothing animals. They had learned to channel their fury, and in doing so had found a purity of form far greater than the maddened fiends of old.

Some staked their claim to the lands of their origins. Others migrated across the world. All carved a path through their opposition and instilled fear in those that heard their howling. Unlike the other nephilim that formed networks of houses or alliance, they continued on as they always had. One pack, with one vision under a single iron-clawed rule. Caught between the rise of nightmares and the Paradise Church, it was highly effective, and you can find werewolves scattered across every frontier, though they hardly resemble what they once were.

These days, even the word werewolf is a relic; the last remaining link to their origins. Sure, they look a bit like wolves, in the right light. Shapeshifter is a term used interchangeably, and I find it far more accurate. Shifting; that’s the key. Their real form is like a living shadow; closer to smoke than meat and blood. It shimmers and twists and curls off them to look like fur, and it follows behind like tails. That’s the extent of the illusion, and just as immaterial. Sometimes, they’re solid, but just as often, they leave no tracks. They contort in ways that no body should, and attacks pass partially through them, or are avoided entirely. The only solid mass in their form is a row of serrated fangs; some longer than my arm.

How do you kill them? Any way you can. Bullets are barely an annoyance. Blades are suicide. I saw a tank shell hit a Sterling once and shear off a chunk of glowing flesh bigger than me. The damn thing just got mad. Cracked the tank like an egg and ate the poor souls inside. Silver is your best bet, but even that’s no sure thing. Oh, it’ll burn them; slow their freakish-fast healing. That won’t stop them from tearing you and all your squadmates in half before it realizes you were ever a threat. A werewolf in combat is an apoplectic storm. Some grow larger than train cars and can keep pace with them too. They remember your scent and they hate you. To them, transforming isn’t just controlling their physical forms: it’s the shape of their spirit. If you befriend one, keep it close. If you make one your foe, pray to whatever power you believe in that you never see their teeth. Because the transformation isn’t what gives them their fangs and claws; it’s when they put on a disguise that they’re the same as you.