Just a Bad Tavern Story

The world was broken, the seas were a mess,

The sky had fallen to land on their heads.

A man rose up from the ashes above,

Ensnared by the flames like a phoenix of love.

His people saw hope, his foes knew fear,

But all he had left was the pain he held dear.

This is the song of a voiceless hand,

Who took what he had and brought fire to the land.

"That's all well and good, but where are the naked women? You promised us a good time, old man!"

The crowd laughed merrily at the comment, with others making similar lewd remarks in search of a reaction. But the aged storyteller just smiled.

"Yes, yes I did. And a good time you will have. But for now, listen to this short tale. Not all of it - just the part that counts."

---

The coppery taste on his lips wasn't his own, but that of the headless corpse laid atop him. For just a moment, while a massacre continued beyond, this timid man stared into the fleshy core of another person's neck. Or at least, where a neck would normally be. The sight shook him, sent electricity coursing through his veins so fast that it may as well have been poison. But then the realization. Armor. Fur padding. The sword laying next to them both. His family's only heirloom.

Brother. Now a corpse, but once a man. Strong and kind. Protective. Dead.

Shock left the man almost as quickly as it arrived - in its place simmered rage. Red hot, molten, superimposed onto every fiber of his being. That night marked the first transformation.

In the following weeks, rumors began to spread. Farm animals went missing, and people followed suit. Entire homesteads disappeared in the twilight, leaving behind hints of where civilization once rested. This survivor's rage could not be quelled, and it could not be contained. The fire burned too brightly within him as he came to know his abilities, getting more proficient by the day. Lycanthropy, they called it. Wolfmen. Legends of silver blades and broken fangs became common talk, as anyone with fear in their hearts looked for ways to defend themselves from such a beast.

They couldn't. So they simply hid, hoping beyond hope that it wouldn't come for them next.

---

Silence swept through the room.

"Is that it? That's how it ends? What happened to the beast? Was it killed?"

"Oh, attempts were definitely made to slay the beast," said the old man, "but none were successful. The last one left an impression, though."

"What happened in the last attempt?" shouted another member of the enthralled audience.

"Well, a hunter came along. He survived multiple encounters with the werewolf, eventually set up a trap in the mountains, and crushed the wolf in a rockslide. He took one of its claws as a trophy, left the area and was never heard from again."

Another person speaks up. "But...you just said the creature wasn't killed?"

"I did indeed." he said, grinning slightly.

"The avalanche didn't kill the beast - but it did remove that savage piece of him, leaving something new in its place. Simple carnage wouldn't aid him, and neither would pretending that his pain never existed. So, he went into hiding: took on a new identity, new hobbies. Never stayed in one place for long. The werewolf is still out there, you just have to know where to look. But then again, would you really want to?"

---

As dawn approached, the tavern emptied out. Workers went back to their everyday, normal, mundane lives, quickly forgetting all about the old man and his stories. But he never forgot. The missing finger on his right hand made sure of that; a constant reminder of his rage, and the vengeance he so desired.