Twenty per cent wolf, eighty per cent human. Nobody knows the difference. Well, not quite nobody. The Hunters know. And their hounds. They can tell the difference, by smell, I think. The hounds especially. But I can smell them too.
I know when they’re close. I hide within groups of people when they’re close. They can’t differentiate between me and the others, and I blend in well.
On good nights, the Hunters become the hunted. One by one, they are ‘removed’ from the chase. On bad nights, our pack is diminished, ravaged, scattered throughout the town.
But we have a base. A place to hide where we’re welcome. The Silver Bullet isn’t exactly hiding in plain sight, but it works. On bad nights, we meet up there.
We’re safer in numbers on bad nights. The Hunters try to find us in there but always fail. We’re on the door… behind the bar… dancing on the floor… we’re everywhere.
A silver bullet will stop us, but we now have a silver bullet that stops them.
And our bad nights… well, we’re turning them around. We’re turning them good.
We’re wolves. And we know what we’re doing.
The Mansionic Perspective 
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