Blood drives you. The sight of blood, its smell. When you taste it, your heart sings.

You are alone, weighed down by the pounds of lead lodged in your flesh. It wasn't always this way; when you sleep, when the breeze blows right, you still dream of running with your pack, of taking down great beasts and resting under the watch of the stars. But when you're awake, you're alert. You follow the sounds of creatures unafraid of being spotted. You stalk them through the woodlands, wait until they separate--they always separate--and when they do, you strike. You go for the throat when you can; when you can't, you crush their limbs between your jaws and drag them into the deep forest.

Luxury has made you picky. There is too much food to bother with the less savory bits. You sample the soft offal, crack a bone or two to get at the marrow and leave the rest for others to find. You know they will find it, you know they will vocalize at each other, and you know that they will come in throngs, carrying light and death, looking for you.

Let them come. You welcome it.

They might find you, but you will find them first. You are the displaced beast of the land of Gévaudan, the encroacher's nightmare, the subject of tales told to little children before bed.

The lead will kill you one day. When you strain, old wounds reopen. The blood that seeps from them smells foul, and is thin like river water. The lead is already beginning to poison you--every day it's harder to think, to plan, to remain patient and hidden. Your days run short.

But you will never die.

They will be singing songs about you for ages to come!