"Oh my gods," panted Chris as he ran through the trees, "they're wolves!"
Too bold for his own good, his hubris would be his undoing. Being the town historian, Chris fancied himself somewhat of an expert on curses. Every so often, parted by generations, their town would befall a terrible curse. A curse that transforms villagers into blood thirsty beasts. The last curse was eight generations ago and he should have already known they due.
He was on the outskirts of the town, but he may as well have been miles away.
Chris honestly thought that he would be able to gather facts about the beasts and maybe slay one, but his efforts drew nothing but ire. His mind raced through options, but none presented themselves.
"I must let the others know," he said between gasps as he grabbed a bit of parchment and his trusty quill. A large wolf slowly stepped into the clearing and Chris backed up to a tree. He had no time to fumble for his ink. Chris stabbed his forearm and scribbled a note in blood just before the wolf attacked.
It didn't take long for Chris to die and it would be only a few hours before the other villagers found his severed arm tightly clenched around a hastily blood-written note that simply read, "The beast are wolf."
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Tis day, Lynchin' time. Night starts at May 15, 2012, 12:00:00 PM