The blizzard swirled wildly around the little farm house, snow pelting the windows and coating the roof as the winds tore past the cottage, tossing trees branches and loose rubbish around wildly. The howling wind rattled the shutters and shook the entire cottage.
Inside this little cottage an elderly farmer sat, sipping from a chipped cup as he tried to listen to his radio. The voice of the announcer for the cricket game was broken up by static every few moments, but it was better to listen to than the frightening howl of the winds. "And Johnson hits it for a ..." Suddenly the commentators voice trailed away in a blast of static that made old Mr. Kimson wince. With a sigh the old farmer drank the last of his tea, set his cup down in the kitchen sink and preceded to lock up the house. After he had made his rounds, checking that all the doors and windows were shuttered and locked, he blew out all but one of his lamps and then pulled down the remaining one from its hook and wondered across his longue room to the door to his bedroom. He never made it, for at that moment the rabid form of a hulking wolf burst through the old single window of the longue room. With a frightened scream Mr. Kimson dropped his lamp, where it went out with a puff of foul smelling smoke.
A second wolf-like form battered down the old oaken front door at that moment, ripping it apart with its savage claws and crashing through the longue room towards its target. The glass fronted kitchen cupboard fell to the ground with a crash, its contents shattering in a cloud of broken pottery. The first wolf had already grabbed the old farmer, but now the second one latched on and together they dragged the now unconscious man from the cottage, leaving a trail of blood on the floor and snow behind them.
A few days later Vicar Asvaldr stood next to a bloodied pile of human bones, watching as the village detective scoured through the bloodied snow for clues. He struggled now to hurl his stomachs contents as he looked around the snow filled clearing, sighting chunks of flesh and blood spread out as far as a hundred meters from the body... well bones. "It would appear that they have arrived." The Vicar said, sighing. His brother-in-laws village had been hit by Werewolfs only a month earlier and he could remember every word of the description his brother-in-law had given of the remains of those killed by the Lycans. His brother-in-law and his sister had been two of the few survivors of the attack but they had lost both their children in the attack.
"Werewolves, Sir?" The single other police officer of that the village of Deatha boasted asked.
"Yes, Werewolves have entered out midst." The Vicar said with a groan of despair.
The Vicar of the village of Deatha stood up in the Judges booth of the Deatha Civil Court with a sigh and look down over the gathered people of the village. The seats and benches for the defines and complainants and the "Today a Werewolf has attacked our village and therefore, the hangings must begin. Everyone in this village must cast a vote to say who they believe to be the Werewolf. The ballot boxes are in the foyer. The one who gets the most votes will be executed by hanging. If they are a Werewolf, it shall be relieved, if not, they shall die none the less." The Vicar said, bashing the judges hammer down as a few people began to shout. "This is the only way to find the killer... Let the voting begin." The Vicar said, bashing his hammer down once again and stepping down from the booth.