[h1][center][color=gold]The Hero Chronicles[/color][/center][/h1]
[h2][sub][center][color=gold]Races Galore, Heroes? Way More![/color][/center][/sub][/h2]
[h3][sub][center][color=gold]The Wolven Menace[/color][/center][/sub][/h3]

HAHAHAHA! Let me tell you a story about a wolf and a human combination…or better said, a werewolf. Let me tell you the story of how a werewolf was able to rise to the status of heroic menace on Galbar. The hero wolf. The one for whom all are food. Gluttony incarnated. He who all wolves bow to. The Alpha. The Pack Leader. The WHITE WOLF. And the titles could probably continue for a while but I’ll let you decide what you want to call him.

Without further ado’, here’s the beginning of the story of how one werewolf raised to this status. 

Far away in the wild, on the other side of Galbar, beastfolk of all kinds found themselves and stuck together for survival. Even with the river and the godly gift of life, food was scarce. There were many. Too many folk. Between the ever present goblins and the beastfolk, it was just not enough for everyone. Even with farming being brought over by the Snouters, there were still power struggles. The bigger beastfolk would take from the smaller, the strong from the weak, the cunning from the fools. One would eat today only for the next day to be eaten by someone else. The never ending cycle of death and rebirth. 

Unfortunately for the weak nothing could be done. Such starts the story of the one that will be known as the menace of Galbar. This beastfolk was weak, the weakest of the bunch. Not because they couldn’t hunt or run fast enough, no-no, he was weak because of how they were born. A fur whiter than white. A natural defect, an albino werewolf. As such, they were shunned by their peers. Shunned and thrown away from any pack they wanted to join and we all know what happens to wolves that don’t have a pack…they wither and die. Slowly. Very slowly. Alone. Hungry.

This werewolf was called: Luna Mortis.

Luna was initially kept separate from the other beastfolk from his broodmother but as his whiteness became more obvious and harder to hide, the other pack members shunned his family to the point where eventually…Luna was abandoned far into the desert. Alone in the vast, unforgiving desert, Luna faced the harshness of the arid landscape. The scorching sun beat down upon him, and the shifting sands presented a different kind of challenge. Luna, with his distinctive white fur, found solace in the moonlit nights when the desert cooled, and the stars painted the sky.

He struggled to find sustenance and as days turned into agonising weeks, and hunger gnawed at his insides. The werewolf, now weakened by starvation, roamed the dunes in search of prey. Not caring about what he can eat…as long as he will eat. 

In the depths of despair with only the primal instinct of survival in his mind, Luna stumbled upon a group of beastfolk that looked almost as bad as he did. Drawn by the scent of desperation, Luna descended upon them. Claws and teeth tore through their unprotected skins, even as the group offered promises of food and safety if only he lets them live. 

After Luna was done, nothing remained to bear witness to the carnage he left behind, nothing but pools of blood which were quickly evaporating. Now, satiated from his hunger...temporarily, Luna searched his memories for what his prey were saying. Food, shelter, safety. North. With a goal in mind and his nose ready to find more food, he ran as fast as his legs allowed him.

North. Towards food and the goblin states.