THE WOLF WALKS AGAIN! George Seen Across the Fog-Drenched Northern Pines

Deep within the pine thickets flanking the northern palisades, the silence of the night is shattered by a solitary, mournful baying that chills the marrow of the hardiest foresters. Those who know the tragic history of the district whisper the name of George—the once-respected gamekeeper whose human likeness vanishes whenever the full moon rises.

Heavy paw prints, wider than any known mountain predator, have been discovered pressed deep into the muddy moss surrounding the castle moat. Witnesses who peered from fortified shutters describe a creature of tremendous sinew and bristling grey fur, hunting with savage precision yet pausing intermittently before the locked fortress gates as if burdened by the remnants of human memory.

Travelers crossing the northern pass are solemnly warned to travel only in armed convoys by high noon. When the moon rides high in the winter sky, instinct reigns supreme over the woods, and the wolf permits no trespassers upon his sovereign hunting grounds.