Vroll sat on his knees in the cold snow, bathed in the light of the full moon above. Naked, covered only in the thick pelt of the great grey wolf slung over his back. Its fanged head resting atop his and it’s rip bones strung together by its tendons, hanging down in front of his torso.
All around him sat his fellow clansmen, clad in skin, pelt and bone, watching him smearing the blood of the beast on his skin.
He reached into a crude, wooden bowl laying in the snow in front of him, containing the bloody heart of the great wolf. Lifting it high above his head, blood running down his arms, and from the crowd, the sound of a drum beating the rhythm like that of a heart could be heard. Vroll took a bite of the heart and after the raw piece had run down his throat, he said loudly
“Voelren arr ek hee!”
And his clansman joined in a chant to the beat of the drum “Voelren! Voelren! Voelren!” He took another bite.
“Voelren arr ek hee!”
“Voelren! Voelren! Voelren!”
And so it continued till the heart was utterly consumed, and both the chant and the drums died out. Silence fell over the gathering, a near hundred warriors waiting in eager anticipation.
Suddenly, Vroll’s eyes turned the colour of the deepest black and he reeled backwards, screaming in pain. The bones that hung from neck pressed inwards through his skin; the pelt of the wolf merging with his skin.
Bones cracked and snapped as they changed form and rearranged themselves within him. With screams of agony, nails were torn from his fingers as long black claws forced themselves through the skin. The screams only became louder when his lower jaw came unhinged, dangling freely as he fell forward, standing on his hands and knees in the snow.
With a discomforting crunching sound the head of the wolf forced its way down through his skull; teeth falling out of his mouth as long fangs forced their way through. His lower jaw growing longer before reattaching itself; coughing up a dark, putrid liquid onto the ground.
As the snapping of bones and ripping of flesh carried on, the screams of pain became the feral growls of an unnatural beast. Soon, the man that had been Vroll just a few minutes earlier was no more, only Voelren now stood amongst the clansmen. Rising up on its hind legs, a head taller than the tallest man present, it howled, and the clansmen chanted once more.
“Voelren! Voelren! Voelren!” louder and louder and faster and faster, it rose in the night, ready for the hunt.
Writer At The Threshold 