His name was Francis Bonnefoy, and in all honesty he should have known better than to travel between towns at night. But as it happens with such events, the young eighteen year old Frenchman was cursed with an unorganized list of priorities, with safety falling significantly below his love of women. Instead he was cursed with youth's ignorance of mortality. And so, it was in his endless quest for both emotional and carnal love that the blond found himself leaving the security of the brightly lit and lively roadside inn and traversing into the dark woods. Down a path leading to a small town where he was due to meet his most recent of courtesans.
"Monsieur I really must protest to you leaving. It is dangerous in the forest at night. Please stay" the innkeeper's wife objected. A kindly woman, if a bit overbearing. But Francis simply shook his head with a lofty sigh as he pulled on his traveling cloak.
After fastening the navy garment over his shoulders the handsome -and very self-aware of this fact- man took the middle-aged woman's hand in his own and pat it kindly. "Ah ma chère femme, I am afraid I cannot accept such hospitality. I am needed elsewhere, and what kind of man would I be if I ignored a woman in need of my loving touch." Francis offered the woman a smile and chose to ignore the way she crinkled her nose in disgust at what he suggested might be his business. To be fair, the Frenchman was not one to boast of his conquests, but in this case he felt it necessary to get the woman to allow him to leave. With one last wave and a wink the sapphire-eyed man left the light and safety of the inn and took up a lit torch to light his way into the woods.
Late fall was upon France, leaving the woods crisp and bare. Above the thick and winding branches of the trees Francis spied a deep crimson blood moon. The sight of the heavenly body taking up so ghastly a hue sent a shiver down his spine, but still he ignored it. He was a man of science. Or at least he liked to think of himself as such. He took no stock in the rumors of the demonic beasts said to run free on nights like the one upon him. So still he marched on, the flickering orange flame of the torch lighting his way on the uneven path. He continued for half an hour or so, until he was in the heart of the wood. Almost seeming to appear up and out of the ether a sharp gale blew past him and smothered the flames of his torch. Francis gasped at the sudden darkness. His eyes had not grown used to the gloom and he was plunged into utter blackness. Suddenly the rumors of shadow loving fiends did not seem so outrageous.
He took one tentative step, then another, knowing he could not simply stop in his current location and recalling somewhat desperately that the path had lead straight. But unfortunately, straight as it was the trail was also obstructed with debris, more specifically a collection of loose stones and broken branches. It was likely upon one of these that Francis slipped, and was sent tumbling off the path and down a steep slope. The Frenchman cried out in pain as he felt himself roll over a collection of sharp stones and pointed branches which tore at his clothes and face like the desperate hands of the damned. The poor man finally came to a stop as the slope gave out over a short drop to a crowded riverbank. Francis could see nothing, but knew that some sort of stream lay before him by the sound of gentle purling of water and the sensation of his traveling cloak becoming heavy with cold liquid.
For some unknown amount of time Francis remained laying on his stomach. Trying in earnest to catch his breath and control the stinging pain of his multiple scrapes and bruises that his fall had earned him. Muttering irritably to himself in his native tongue a hand went to his head where he was distressed to find a growing wetness he could only imagine to be blood. Pressing his fingers a little harder to the tender spot he hissed in pain at the sharp agony it brought him.
"Are you lost little one?" a voice, deep and distinctly harsh called out to him in an accent which suggested français was not his mother tongue but one which Francis could not place. Shocked at hearing another man's voice the startled Frenchman stumbled to his feet and pressed himself against the steep mud wall over which he had fallen not minutes before. A deep-seated fear began to spill into the man's soul. And yet, he held out hope that whoever this man was, he might yet lead the wayward traveler out of these accursed woods and back to blessed civilization.
So with that hope in mind he answered the man's call. "O-Oui monsieur. I seemed to have lost my torch. Do you mind helping me find my way to the town at the other end of these woods s'il vous plait?" Francis forced a smile and tried to direct it blindly in the direction he thought he had heard the voice emanate from. The voice chuckled, causing him to jump in fright. The sound came from so close it was as though it had come from within his own head.
"If you think I am standing over there you must not be able to see very well" the man, for this was most assuredly a man's voice, remarked in a slightly mocking tone which irked Francis. Eyebrow twitching in anger he swallowed both his ire and his pride.
"Oui, I am afraid I don't seem to have your keen eyesight in this gloom" he muttered, poorly masking his scorn.
"Then perhaps you are in need of new eyes." Francis let out a nervous laugh, something inside him beginning to realize that perhaps seeking aid from random men in the woods was not the wisest of decisions.
"Ha ha, and why would I want new eyes. Mine are quite lovely on their own" he lightly protested, slowly feeling his way along the side of the bank, trying to distance himself from the voice.
His efforts were in vain, the voice continued in his mind no matter how far he moved. "Those who linger in darkness must be able to see in darkness. And you my friend, have draped yourself in it. Do you not wish to witness the world for what it truly is?" Francis felt his limbs freeze up and he stopped his retreat. "To see what lingers in the darkness of your mind. What dwells in the borders of the possible." Francis let out an ungodly shriek as some insect with countless legs crawled over his wrist and disappeared back into the recesses of the muddy bank. "What divides those of the light from those of darkness." The voice distanced itself slightly and Francis felt himself relax just the smallest bit. "After all, given everything you've done. Taking countless women to your bed, running from responsibility, abandoning your family. You are a monster, and you belong in a world of monsters." Francis gasped at the implications of this knowledge. How did this man know about his past, he had left it all behind a lifetime ago.
"I-I do not take stock in rumors of witches, vampires, and the like. Find your entertainment e-elsewhere, I will not be made a coward." The Frenchman took on an uncharacteristic air of bravery as he spoke out against the voice. In the long run it probably did him little good.
From across the river two bright eyes like liquid amber appeared, immediately drawing the man's attention. As soon as blue met gold a growl erupted from the pair of glowing orbs centered with a pit of darkness. A wolf he realized. Francis swallowed an indignant shriek of fear and froze in place. "Not everything can be explained away Francis" the voice chuckled.
If he had not been paralyzed in fear Francis would have questioned the man on how he had known his name when it had not previously been given. As it was likely Francis was simply too focused on the likely rabid beast that still had its eyes trained on him. He noticed, with little surprise, that his body had begun shaking uncontrollably to the point that his knees lost their strength and he collapsed completely. Bending its head back the wolf let loose a sickening howl before launching itself across the shallow river towards the frozen Frenchman. Francis' hope that the stream would deter such action died as he realized that what he had perceived as a mighty river was, in reality, nothing but a simple brook not even the depth of his hand.
As the wolf splashed across, the clouds broke in the sky letting a sliver of moonlight cast down and reflect over the fast flowing water to reveal the wolf's form. Thin and lanky, it appeared starved, though thankfully without frothing in the mouth to suggest disease. But this was of little consolation as Francis was still very likely to end up a meal. Its mottled and dirtied black coat seemed to devour the moonlight, almost as if the beast was but a void of darkness containing nothing but eyes. When at last the lycan had crossed the stream it leaped at the still frozen male. But the minute Francis felt pain sear up his leg where the creature sank its fangs into his ankle the paralysis was lifted. The man screamed and started thrashing, aiming to kick the wolf in the head with his free leg. But in his desperation he could not manage to make contact. He screamed and tore at the ground as the wolf began to pull him across the stream. His nails bled by the time he reached the other side and the voice had returned, this time laughing at his plight.
"What will you do now?" the man asked between chuckles, even as the wolf's fangs sank deeper into his flesh.
"Please! Please help me!" Francis cried as he finally managed to land a kick and get the wolf to release him. The creature stumbled back, snarling and shaking its head to rid itself of the pain that came with Francis' kick. Slowly, the wolf began its advance again, warier this time and eyeing the human carefully. Francis began to drag himself back, his eyes not once leaving the beast's. As it neared the animal picked up speed until it came close enough and lunged at him. Francis cowered on the ground, having not even made it a quarter of the stream's width and threw up his arms in a vain attempt at defense. But it proved unnecessary, as the ripping of flesh and tearing of limbs never came.
Instead the young man was met by a high pitched whine like that of a dog and instead of sharp teeth he felt something warm and wet, though more viscous than the water, splatter over his arms and face. Slowly, and with wide eyes he lowered his arms and looked to the wolf. Before him lay the now dead creature. It appeared to have been stabbed in the underbelly and massive amounts of blood and intestines pooled beside it. The sight of the fleshy pink viscera was so sickening Francis would have wretched if not for the remaining fright that unwillingly hardened his stomach. The man's voice returned again, and this time it was accompanied by the dark silhouette of a creature with, as much as Francis could tell by the dim light, the appearance of a man. More of the wolf's blood dripped from his hands which were curled like claws. Somewhere inside Francis made the dark realization that this being had not needed any sort of weapon to do what he had to the beast. "Who- who are you?" he asked with a wavering voice.
The dark figure turned towards him, walking oddly, as if with poor balance and almost seemed to sway from one side to the other slightly, like a drunkard. "I am the Man of the Forest" he replied as if speaking of the obvious to some dimwitted child. The Man of the Forest approached the carcass of the wolf before the Frenchman and bent over it. Though by nature appreciative of all forms of human beauty, Francis found himself looking away upon the realization that the man was naked. Luckily the sliver of moonlight had not passed lower than the man's pelvis. His face as well, was shadowed in gloom. The man took the head of the wolf in hand and with his left hand bared, began tearing apart the body. He clawed at the carcass from where the wolf's organs had spilled and from there began to tear the pelt from the remainder of the body as if he were simply a hunter skinning a rabbit. Once again Francis felt the need to release his previous meal and this time did manage to let out a sound of disgust as he witnessed pale pink muscle and flesh become exposed through the ripping of the wolf's sinewy tissue. The bile that had risen however, he was forced to swallow back with a grimace.
The stench was awful, though only recently dead the flesh of the wolf stunk of decay and rot even though logically there should have been no way for the stench to grow so foul so soon. Francis gasped as it became almost too terrible to breathe and reached one hand over his nose and mouth to help shield himself from the scent. At the sound of the man's distress the Man of the Forest faltered in his movements for a moment, sparing a glance towards Francis before returning to the deed. And soon enough the poor beast was completely stripped of its hide, ears, eyes, and jaws, which were now clutched in his terrible savior's hands. The man turned and approached the other. In fear, Francis attempted to move away, dragging his wounded and bleeding leg but was somehow becoming caught and entangled in the roots and twigs scattered along the bank. If he were of an objective point of view Francis might have jested that nature itself seemed to be against him. "N-non" he protested as the man reached out towards him with his free, yet still bloodied hand. He did not stop and gripped tightly the collar of Francis' shirt. With a swift tug Francis was pulled back to the opposite side of the river.
"Why do you feel afraid? Did you not ask for my help? I am granting you a great gift young one" he spoke with condescending placation before throwing the poor man to the earth. Francis cried out for help and tried to get away, but again was held back. The Man of the Forest crawled atop him and held the young man down with one hand over his shoulder. He dropped the wolf coat and began to draw over the Frenchman's face some manner of symbols in blood even as Francis struggled with all his strength. Then, when Francis' face was sufficiently stained to his liking, the Man of the Forest took up the pelt again and draped it over him.
The effect was instantaneous. To Francis it was like the creeping hands of death overcame him and the young man screamed in absolute terror, thrashing on the ground with little heed for pride or appearances. The smooth, fleshy underside of the pelt brushed frigidly against his skin. It gave the sensation of something cold and slimy crawling over the entirety of his body and he kicked and flailed his arms, the only thought in his mind being the need to remove the horrible object. The skin of the hide slowly started stretching and finally Francis was able to claw at something. Somehow though, instead of contacting the wolf skin he instead scratched at his own clothing. But in his deranged mentality Francis tore at it anyway and soon found himself naked with nothing covering himself but the pelt. The cool touch faded. And then came the true method of torment.
A searing pain like fire erupted along the length of Francis' spine, causing him to roll over onto his hands and knees to try and relieve himself of the agony. He saw stars and his vision blurred white as he screamed in time with small popping sounds, somehow beating past the echo of his cries. It felt as if each and every disc in his spinal column split out of place, expanded, and then was shoved back into alignment as the next along the column began the transformation. From the outside, one could see how the small ridges in the skin over his spine cracked and grew in size, becoming more pronounced as the skin of the wolf fleece stretched, beginning to cover his back as well. The poor man bowed and arched his spine, trying feebly to get away from the pain in his own body; but nothing seemed to work. In a last attempt to escape before the pain became too much he stumbled forward. Lurching onto his feet and crashing into the thick trunk of a spreading oak tree. The bark cracked and gave way, sending the tree down with a groan and leaving Francis to collapse back to the ground before the new stump. Screams fused with whimpers and sobs as he then continued to writhe on the ground.
Somewhere, mixed with the pain of more bones bending up to the point of fracturing and breaking came a sense that the wolf pelt was becoming stitched into every inch of his flesh with a burning needle and thread. As the hide stretched over each limb he felt as though a hammer was taken to the bone. He watched with wide, frightened eyes as the dark, furry skin clung and wrapped itself over his right arm that was helping to prop him up. Suddenly the bone of his forearm, wrist, and each finger was snapped and he collapsed on his side, mutely screaming in agony as his throat had long since gone raw. The fiery pain of the fleece knitting itself into his skin battled with the agony of his arm reforming and growing in size. He was dimly aware that the same thing was happening to his other forelimb as well as his legs, but he was too fixated on watching the progression of his right arm's transformation to take heed.
It would appear to an outsider as though he were being swallowed. Like a parasite the pelt grew and Francis watched as his own pale skin split and bled, revealing the pink and bloodied flesh beneath as it spontaneously increased in muscle mass. As if he were being flayed before the wolf skin replaced it and was sewn into place. It wound its way over his shoulder, down his arm and around his fingers and palms as they reshaped. Ending at last with his nails, the old falling away to reveal new ones, blackened and growing in length into sharp claws, each an inch long at least. Francis was now on his back, twitching and writhing as he suffered for what felt like an eternity. All the while the Man of the Forest watched with a bearing of amused fascination about him, though his face remained in shadow.
Then, to complete the transformation, the skin reached his face. Francis' head whipped to the side as he felt his jaw collapse on the left side, then the right. His cries turned to moans as he felt like some entity had seized his broken jaw and began to pull it forward, elongating his skull. And as the wolf's eyes fell over his own, and the ears twitched over his head, the moans turned to howls.
The entirety of the transformation objectively took no longer than ten to fifteen minutes. But to Francis it had felt like hours. By the time the pain had faded from the mind it could no longer truly be called his own. He was vaguely aware that he was now in a standing position. Hunched slightly, with his whole body panting in exhaustion. He was taller, he felt warmer, and somehow the world had gotten brighter. Clearer. Instead of a dark and shadowed black, his surroundings took on a more deep navy color, and he could clearly see all the trees and shrubs, and the course of the river before him. Or should he say, the beast could.
His mind was clouded. A raw, throbbing thirst seared his throat. Intensifying with every pant. He was hungry he realized. So, so very hungry. And thirsty as well if the continued burning in his throat was any indication. A low growl sounded and for a moment Francis wondered where it had come from before realizing it had been himself. A chuckle. A heavier than normal head swung to the right and two animalistic ears swiveled forward at attention. The panting ceased as all focus centered on the Man of the Forest.
"He he. Beautiful." The beast sensed a challenging aura of dominance. Feeling an instinctual need to exert his position Francis folded his ears back and curled back his lip in a furious snarl. Exposing long canine teeth that dripped with hot saliva. The Man of the Forest made no move other than to smirk and Francis caught the glistening of white teeth filed to points. And then devilish apparition was gone.
Just like that the monster was alone. Francis wondered momentarily where the man had gone before falling back into the haze of hunger and appetite that stemmed from his new body. The man-beast stalked on its hind legs, lumbering oddly, like it would have much rather resorted to using all four limbs, to the river. Francis hesitated, lifting one clawed arm out as if to cross back to where he had come from, only for the winds to shift. Suddenly, his focus was directed elsewhere entirely. Swirling around so his back was to the river with a raspy breath, Francis steadied himself in a crouch. One forearm steadied him on the ground and the other Francis curled in near his chest before sticking his elongated snout in the air and taking in an unbelievably alluring scent.
The beast's mouth went dry. He started heaving for air, trying to simply inhale whatever that wonderful scent lead to. He wanted it. Needed it. It needed to be inside of him. Amber eyes narrowed and the wolf lifted up to its full height and howled just before it set off. In its haste the humanoid beast resorted to its more basal mode of transportation, loping along on all four limbs. In the crisp autumn air the wolf's hot breath was visible. He sprung through the woods, skillfully dodging the trees as they thinned and eventually faded away to reveal a small village a short distance away. A woman, with pale skin like the moon and raven-black hair braided down her back was making her way back to her home on the outside edge of the town.
Sprinting the distance between the wood and the town with relatively impressive silence, all Francis, the man, was aware of was the sweet scent and the whooshing sound in his ears that he would later recognize as the woman's blood rushing through her veins. Sounds of laughter and music and movement, likely drowning out any unwanted sounds he was making. This was no home. It was something between a tavern and an inn. Following the sweet scent and ignoring the dull musk of the many men on the ground floor the wolf found itself on its hind legs once again, leaning one arm on the wall of the inn in support as he strained upward to take in the smell. A window was open, from which the scent wafted heavily. In a matter of seconds Francis had somehow traversed up the side of the building to the window, and now was crouched quietly beneath the opening, avoiding the moonlight and fading into the shadows thanks to his dark, grayish-black fur. There, wearing a sheer white nightgown and breathing quietly in the calm peace of sleep, was the woman. Francis crept silently across the floorboards. The raucous sounds of merriment below masking his approach.
Once the wolf-man had come upon the bed an odd sense of calm overtook the young man's fogged senses. This was something with which Francis was particularly fond and rather familiar. Reaching out one enlarged and furry hand, he used the claw of his index finger to gently nudge the woman's face towards himself. Francis' touch had a softness and uniquely human feeling to it that it caused the woman to let out a subconscious sigh of contentment as she shifted over to face the beast, eyes still slid shut. The wolf leaned its face in and sniffed her cheek. She giggled in her sleep and her pale cheeks flushed a light pink at the feeling of the wet nose on her skin. Slowly, the wolf climbed up onto the bed, hind legs straddled over the woman's hips as the wolfish snout traveled lower. Down her neck, over a shoulder, tracing the curve of her arm until it came to her hand resting over her abdomen.
Francis paused, opened his jaws, and sank long teeth into her side, ripping into flesh and bone and blood. Immediately, deep, navy blue eyes shot open and the woman arched her back against the teeth tearing into her flesh and screamed. Or at least she would have. The minute her lips had parted to take in breath one of Francis' wolf ears perked up and turned in her direction, alerting the monster of her awareness. While his hind legs kept him propped up Francis used his right forearm to clamp down over the woman's mouth, his enlarged hand encircling everything from the bridge of her nose to the bottom of her jaw. Inadvertently smothering her as claws dug into her cheeks for purchase. The other arm held down thin, flailing legs that attempted to kick him away.
At some basic level he must have realized it was wrong. But Francis' human consciousness was so far gone, so consumed by the feeling of soft flesh between his teeth, and warm blood sliding down his burning throat that he didn't care. High pitched whimpers and pleading noises reached the ear directed towards the raven-haired beauty, while the other monitored the inattentive bustling below. The monster paid little heed to the weak struggles beneath him as he momentarily removed his jaws only to sink them in again at a slightly different angle. The woman's struggles increased and her muffled screaming intensified momentarily before sinking back into hopeless sobs once again. On the outside of his peripheral amber wolf eyes noticed how the navy blue ones of the woman stared back pleadingly at the beast. Searching for humanity. Pity none could be reached at this time.
Eventually all struggles and sounds ceased and Francis slowly retracted himself, claws, teeth, and all from his meal. The girl made no movement, dull blue eyes that seemed even darker, almost black, stared up unseeingly at the ceiling of the small room. Tracing his gaze lower Francis noticed with a dull animalistic whine that the body was nearly torn in half. He, in his bloodlust, had devoured nearly her entire abdomen from hip to right below the breast. But there was still more, and the wolf wanted it. Letting his mind sink deeper and deeper into instinct and desire, the last thing from that ungodly night that Francis Bonnefoy would ever remember was silently approaching the bed once again, and taking the body up in his arms to transfer it somewhere he could devour it in peace. Leaving a bloodied and horrific scene behind for the people of the inn to discover in the morning.
Thanks for reading! I took a literature course on classic monsters for school and this is the result. I didn't know werewolves were mostly a French thing. So... review?