[Feanor of the Peredhil]

The werewolves prowl the woods throughout the night, careful to wake no sleeping villagers. Around the town they place traps, wolf pits of their own cunning make, and snares, and nefarious things of natures too foul to speak. All to make sure any who would defect will meet a swift end. The villagers will belong to the werewolves whether they stand bravely to fight the unknown threat, or whether they run to save themselves. The tallest werewolf flexes muscles, admiring its long, retractable claws. No uncontrolled monsters, these; the evil that marked them gave them power over their transformation: they are always in their right mind, though the rightness of those thoughts is certainly arguable. In the night, the world belongs to them, to act in as they wish. They can stay as humans do... but it was with their natures that the curse had been placed. None of these creatures of darkness has yet chosen not to partake of sinister dealings in the safety of shadow; it is doubtful that they will abstain from evil. They transform at will, once the moon has risen, but though the nature of their transformation - be it merely claws, or fully into the form of a wolf - is uncertain, that they become monsters was not. Monsters who crave violence. Damned souls with an addiction to pain.

One wolf, fairest of the lot, admires the glistening of moonlight on dew strewn leaves. The creature reaches out and slashes the living plant to mangled ribbons with a laugh.

As dawn approaches, they return to their beds with silent farewells, congratulating themselves on a night well spent surrounding the village, cutting off escape, keeping strangers away.

---

As the sun rises, the village meets by the well in what seems an almost ritualistic manner to the casual observer. Morning comes, and with it a need for water, fresh air, and gossip. The village had always met here, will always meet here. The wolves, human in form, smile. Perhaps not always.

One wolf speaks and the town listens, for this is a town of courtesy and turn-taking. When one speaks their words are heeded. The wolf says, "It has come to me in a dream that our village is in danger."

One amongst the many closes a pair of gifted eyes, wondering at the ability for two to dream of the same. This villager had spent a fitful night watching dreamt shadows close in.

The wolf continues. "I believe this dream to be prophetic. I believe there is a danger, an unseen danger. I believe the village must act, and swiftly."

With the concealed enemy's words, the village broke into paranoid whispers, eying each other with distrust.

One statement, one rumor passed by malicious silver tongue, and the village, so close, so trusting, became a den of activity. Nobody would lie to them, surely, therefore there must be a threat. There must be action.

They swiftly decided upon a course of action:

During the day, they would speak, they would present defenses and accusations. They would, in short, hold trials. Those found innocent would be spared (unless minds were subsequently changed). Those found guilty... would be killed.

And those suspected to weigh approximately the same amount as waterfowl would be unceremoniously tossed into the well, weighted and chained, for only a witch weighs so little.

---

Dawn has arrived. Day One begins. B88 and Fea have died on their way to learn the mysteries of this village. The wolves are cunning. The seer exists to help you. Ordinary villagers, luck be with you.

Begin!