I once lived in the great city of Gilneas, far north of where we are now, founded in the shadow of an old kingdom. After the Second War, our king was adamantly for us breaking our alliances with the other nations and built a massive wall that no human could ever scale. Shortly after the wall was finished, hushed rumors had taken over the city that werewolves had been found in the wilds outside. No one wanted to believe it, but the patrols atop the walls and the howls outside suspended any disbelief. For twenty years, we hid, tending to our own and had no interaction with any other nations.

People eventually complained of sickness, some were even found in alleys with no known culprit or indication other than savage claw and bite marks. The walls stood no chance of holding these creatures back, and one fateful night, they attacked.

We had no way to prepare for such grim circumstances. I vaguely remember running to my home when the first wave hit. My father was one of the first victims, and my brothers and I quickly took refuge in our cellar. Knowing how quickly these monsters broke through the heavy, wooden front door, we knew it was only a matter of time before we were found.

It was three days time before we interacted with anything from outside. A neighbor had also taken refuge in her cellar with her child, and she had just come out to look for other survivors. We decided to join them, promising we'd try our hardest to protect them until we were out of the city limits.

But how wrong we were.

We'd nearly gotten to the city perimeter when we heard snarls behind us. We bolted, but they caught up quickly. My oldest brother went first, followed by the youngest. I demanded she went without us, insisting it was for the best. I knew not what would happen to the child and preferred not to risk it.

However, it was too late. They rushed forward and tackled me onto the ground. I looked up, pleading her to go, and then...

I honestly don't recall much after that. I remember the sting from the bite, the pain, the change. There was anger, sadness, guilt... the guilt was the worst of it, because I have this feeling in my gut that tells me I'd turned on my city.I'd helped carve our way into the heart of our beloved home and turned whoever stood in our way.

They'd built an army from whatever was left.
---

After a while, I had figured out what I'd become. I had almost lost my humanity completely, but old magics from a foreign nation had saved that miniscule part of me left within that feral husk and allowed me to continue my life where I'd left off, or at least attempt to. However, the transformation was somewhat permanent, making me appear to be a large, snarling beast.

I know not what happened to my brothers, or whether the mother and her child had escaped. All I can do for them is hope for the best. I've heard whispers of younger werewolves outside the old city, though I do my best not to be pessimistic for them.

Shortly after we left the ruins of our beloved city, most of our people went their separate ways. Some became adventurers, others attempted to settle down. I had a bit of combat knowledge, though perhaps not enough to go through any heroic endeavors.

I'm the last of my family, so I feel that it's my sworn duty to keep our traditions alive. My father was a blacksmith, and rather well known within the city for his craftsmanship. I had learned a bit about the trade before the attack, so I decided to perfect the technique.

(Rest coming soon!)