In the heart of every man hides the soul of the beast. In this way, we are not so different from the Shapeshifter. - Speculations, Marth Venn Introduction Tales of the lycanthrope - of the shapeshifter, the beast in man's form - are common to every society, human and demihuman alike. There is a certain universality to the concept, which is understandable. The symbolism is so potent, so immediate: A man becomes the beast, and the beast masquerades as a man. Does this not perfectly encapsulate the duality of human nature? In many accounts, the metamorphosis is beyond the shapeshifter's control, signifying the bestial rage that can well up within the mildest of souls. And the fear engendered by the presence of the shapeshifter - the suspicion that any stranger or even a friend may turn out to be the beast - is a reflection of the grim truth that no man may truly know what is in his fellow man's heart. Yes, the shapeshifter is a powerful symbol. And when I was young, I felt certain that this creature was purely symbolic. One did not have to believe in the existence of the shapeshifter to understand the innate truth of such wild tales, for that central truth had nothing to do with monsters or bestial nightmares, but with the psychology of humanity (or so I believed). How naive was I then. While tales of the shapeshifter may be symbolic, they also reflect a substantive reality. I know now that shapeshifters do exist. Once, I discounted the werebeast as a superstitious folly, as something no more significant than an old wives' tale. But I had overlooked the obvious: those so-called "old wives" frequently remember the ancient truths... A Welcome Greetings, fellow scholar. I am Dr. Rudolph Van Richten - erstwhile healer, herbalist, chronicler, husband, father. It seems to me now that I have lived many lives, pursued many careers. How could all of my experiences, all I have learned, be encompassed by a single life span? Yet that is definitely the case. I was born nearly threescore years ago in the land of Darkon. Although the tales and rumors may say otherwise, Darkon is not a place of unrelieved terror, death, and destruction. Certainly, those who live within its boundaries must make certain... adjustments... to their manner of life. There are particular regions where one travels only at the greatest of need, where one invites only trusted friends across the threshold, and where the windows are always shuttered and barred after sunset. Yet during the daylight hours, Darkon - or that region where I spent my childhood, at least - is a beautiful land. For me, few places can rival the allure of its rolling hills, deep primeval forests, grassy glades, and meadows ablaze with a profusion of wildflowers. Before the chill of night sets in, the breezes are gentle, carrying with them the whispers of the trees, and the perfumes of myriad flora. I find that now I can look back on those days of youth with pleasure, and can relish their richness. Such was not always the case. Once, the slightest reminder of the past would rack me with pain and grief. For I had been sundered from those innocent, joyful times by a chasm that no living man could ever cross. In what now seems a previous lifetime, I had a family I loved, a profession I cherished. I was a simple healer leading a simple existence. Then a wretched, blood-sucking horror took my wife and child. My simple existence died with them, and I came to follow a path very different from the one I had chosen for myself. Today I am driven not by my own needs and whims, but by a central cause: to rid the world of the Accursed, those unnatural and supernatural predators who threaten the lives and happiness of all. I speak, of course, of those beings which some have imprecisely classed as "monsters:" the various forms of undead, the shapeshifters, and other fiendish beasts who feast on sorrow and pain. Some who know of my cause believe me to be driven by vengeance. Not so. This once was true, of course. After the loss of my beloved wife and son, desire for vengeance burned brightly within me. It shames me to admit it, but I took great pleasure in sending the fell beast who had destroyed my family down into the blackness of true death. The realization that I had enjoyed my act forced me to re-examine my motives, however, and to scrutinize the very shadows in my soul. It was that intense personal scrutiny which redirected my efforts. From that moment forward, I no longer sought the destruction of such foul creatures for personal benefit or desire for vengeance. Today my central motivation is to spare others the torture and heartache that I myself have suffered. If I go to my grave knowing that I have saved only one person from the torment that I was forced to endure, I will count myself a lucky man and judge my life to have been of worth. The House on the Hill As I have stated, once I did not believe the legends of the shapeshifters, the werebeasts. It was in my thirty-ninth year that I discovered my mistake. By that time, I had traveled the length and breadth of Darkon in my quest to eliminate the unnatural predators which threatened the populace namely, the undead. I was near Varithne, a village too tiny to appear on most maps. It lies in the north of Darkon, where the terrain is rugged and the populace sparse. As was (and still is) my habit, I stopped at the local tavern at day's end, seeking a glass of brandy and a bit of conversation. That night, Varithne's tavern was crowded. Nearly all who filled the room were talking of strange disappearances. Simply by listening, I discovered their plight. Over the past fortnight, seven men had gone missing. The first two were shepherds. As it was the season for doing so, they had led their flocks into the hills to graze. Neither shepherds nor sheep ever returned. Scant days later, a pair of professional hunters joined the ranks of the missing. The people of Varithne had hired these two men to provide meat for the village. Their hunting expedition was to last only a day or two, but like the shepherds they failed to return. The latest to disappear were three travelers who claimed they hailed from a land called Sembia. These adventurous men took it upon themselves to locate the shepherds and hunters. Again, none returned. At first I paid little heed to the rumblings in the tavern that night. Certainly I understood the villagers' concern, but there are many natural predators in the hills of Darken, and I assumed that the seven unfortunates had fallen victim to such creatures. Wolves, bears, or the like could easily have killed the seven men. I was not then, and am not now, a hunter of normal, living creatures. I had emptied my brandy and was about to leave the tavern when I overheard something that changed my mind. Two villagers began to exchange tales of a strange howling they had heard. The sound had been carried on the night winds that blew down from the hills. I asked them to elaborate. This was not the howling of a wolf, the pair assured me, but something quite different. My curiosity was piqued. Not long before, I had discovered and destroyed several unusual ghostly creatures, apparently examples of a hitherto unrecorded subtype of wailing spirit. Those hauntings had been characterized by a nocturnal howling very much like that described by the villagers. Assuming that the orchestrator of Varithne's torment might be one of these spirits, I decided that I would put to rest this accursed creature as well. The next day I set forth into the hills, equipped with several vials of sanctified water, which had proved quite effective against the other wailing spirits. I was confident that I could recognize the sanctuary of my ectoplasmic quarry and then dispatch the creature with little ado. For one of the first times in my life, overconfidence possessed me, and truly led me astray. Not simply in a symbolic sense, mind you. I admit it openly: I became lost. Although a bright morning sun had greeted me when I left the inn, by midmorning that sun was hidden behind slate-gray clouds and a thick mist clung to the hills. Visibility decreased to little more than a stone's throw. I fear I wandered in circles for hours, until the day - already twilight-dark under the clouds - began to darken still further. As the damp chill of the mist leeched the warmth from my body, fear washed over me. It was not the darkness I feared, however. It was disorientation. In fact, there was still light enough for me to see, even though the sun had already sunk below the horizon. As in other regions of Darkon, the rise and fall of the hills was traced by a faintly shimmering, blue-green luminescence. Many call it "gravelight". This light might still have allowed me to return to the village safely - if only I had known in which direction the village lay. It was then I heard the howling: a high-pitched, prolonged ululation. It hung upon the cold wind, fading and then renewing itself again and yet again. My ear perceived the sound, and my soul understood its meaning. It spoke of hunger, solitude, and ferocity. And, cliche though it seems, it spoke of inhuman glee. No mere wolf had ever uttered such a sound - that I knew at once. Nor did the hideous cry precisely match my memories of the wailing spirits. But, in the emotion of the moment, I discounted the difference. I was lost, but I knew the direction from which the heart-numbing howl had come. If I could not find the village this night, at least I could complete the task to which I had set myself and hunt down the wretched spirit. I strode determinedly through the mist. The wailing spirits I had previously destroyed always lurked within some human-constructed building: a deserted house, a desolate warehouse, or (by preference) an abandoned church. Thus, when I saw a small stone house set atop a nearby hill, I thought my trek was at an end. Surely this was the sanctuary of the unquiet spirit I believed I was hunting. Preparing my holy water and other accoutrements, I advanced stealthily toward the building. Great was my surprise and embarrassment when the front door swung open, silhouetting a burly figure against the light. No spirit this, but a red-faced, jolly-looking man around his fiftieth year. He was tall and broad, as muscular as a blacksmith, yet with the weather-tanned face of a farmer. When he set his eyes on me, upon a comparatively little man skulking toward his home like a thief, he threw back his head and laughed. Of course, this only added to my humiliation. "Come in, come in", he called boisterously. "No need to steal an invitation to shelter when it's freely given. Get yeself in out of the night". I felt my face burning as I returned my vials of sanctified water to my pack and slid my silver-bladed knife back into its sheath. "My apologies", I began abashedly, but he cut me off with another booming laugh. "Ne'er mind that now, friend", he said. and sup with me. Unless ye'd prefer to sleep in the gravelight, o'course". I did not have to be invited twice. Though I was confused - for surely the wailing spirit must be somewhere nearby - I welcomed the invitation. This man was undeniably among the living, and no joy of life such as he displayed could coexist with a wailing spirit. Perhaps this burly fellow could direct me to the ectoplasmic horror's true sanctuary ... on the morrow, of course. He gestured for me to enter and I stepped into the cozy little two-room structure. My host's face was wrinkled in a jolly smile, yet it was curious: I sensed some kind of undertone, some submerged emotion, beneath his jocularity. Was it tension? A well-concealed effort or strain? I quickly forgot this little mystery, however, as he maintained a continuous flow of words. At first, I tried to follow my host's rambling conversation, but before long I realized that he was talking for the sake of speaking rather than to communicate anything of value. His must be a lonely life, I decided. My visit represented a rare opportunity for conversation, for which the man was both eager and out of practice. Still, I did not mind the man's chatter. There was a fire in the hearth and a kettle of stew hanging over it. The transition from a bone-chilling cold to such cheery warmth seemed to numb my mind like a strong herbal sedative. When he bade me sit near the hearth, I did so with a will. It was only moments before I felt my head start to nod with the onset of sleep, and I began to fade away. Then the man said something that drew me out of my reverie. "Welcome I said, and welcome I meant, Dr. Van Richten". He was standing behind me, near the front door. His tone was still friendly, but the words that came next were not. "Your name is known to me, for your fame has spread far. So fine it'll be to feast on a man as famous as yourself..". With that I turned, disbelieving. I simply could not have heard him say what I thought I heard. The scene that unfolded shocked me into stupefaction. The man had stripped off his shirt and he was changing, undergoing what I now call the transfiguration. As I watched in dumb horror, I saw his bones shift, bend, and lengthen. His skull warped as though made of clay. His mouth and nose become a bestial snout, and his forehead sloped sharply back above his eyes - eyes that were suddenly bloodshot and glaring. His muscles, too, shifted beneath his skin. The sight would have been enough to nauseate me even without the accompanying sound: a wet, grisly squashing and crunching reminiscent of the noise made by tearing apart raw chicken. His hair, previously shoulder-length, had shortened and become more like a mane or a dog's hackles, traveling along the path of his spine. And a gray pelt had sprung into being, covering his exposed skin. The transition was over in only a heartbeat or two, yet to my fevered mind it seemed much longer. Then the beast stood before me: half man, half animal, with a predator's smile. Saliva dripped from its lips. Now, almost too late, I realized what had invited me to dine. Then it repeated its blood-chilling howl and pounced! I was fortunate. As I have now come to learn, it was but a weak example of its kind. Had it been one whit stronger, it would have devoured my flesh and sucked the marrow from my bones. As it was, I narrowly managed to defeat the creature. Its claws and teeth scored me a dozen times, but my silver ceremonial dagger proved an efficacious weapon. Eventually, the thing lay dead, pierced to the heart with my nine-inch blade. As I withdrew the weapon from the corpse, the creature underwent a reverse metamorphosis, returning to its human form. Once more I gazed at the broad, jolly face of the farmer. This time, however, it was truly at peace, without the hint of tension I had sensed earlier. A werewolf! I thought I searched the rest of the building, both in fear that it had a fellow and in grim suspicion that I would find the final resting places of the missing villagers. was right in my guess. There is no need to go into a description of what I discovered; some things are best left undescribed. Suffice it to say that I was not the only one who had been invited to dine with this fellow and then found himself on the menu. For obvious reasons, I was unable to remain in that house that night. I set out across the hills once more, and by sheer luck [ stumbled across a road that led me back to Varithne. The creature's death did little to ease my terror. I remained in mortal fear for weeks - not for my life, as such, but for my humanity. I had heard many of the legends describing werewolves, although I had paid little enough attention to the details. I feared that the wounds inflicted by the creature would ensure that I would suffer the same dire curse - that I would, upon the next full moon, become a ravening monster myself. Yet no such grievous fate overtook me. To this day, more than a decade later, I have suffered no ill effects. Perhaps the wounds that the monster inflicted were not serious enough to convey the contagion. Or perhaps my natural resistance to disease provided some protection. Perhaps the fact that I used cold silver to slay the beast was the reason for my good health. Or perhaps I was simply fortunate. From that day forth, the insidiousness of the werebeast's threat has not been far from the forefront of my mind. From that day forth, I have numbered the werebeast among the nemeses of mankind.

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