October 9, 1520 - Athens

     I miss the sun. I miss the way it warms my skin. I miss the way the rays danced across everything I loved, making them brighter, better, and more beautiful. But the moon is often forgotten by the day-dwellers. They overlook its simplicity, its gentle pull on the world and the ones in it. Unlike the sun, it is a beckon of light to a dark species. It casts shadows of the trees around me, covering the forest floor. I stare at its nearly perfect circle, listening to the howls in the distance.

     Werewolves are oblivious to the effect the moon has on me. While it calls to them, caressing their wolf form with its gentle glow and they howl in loyalty to it, they call to me. The sounds of their pleas are easy to track and they lure me to them with the promise of a massacre. There is an unexplainable pleasure in bringing down a pack single-handedly. Watching their blood spill across the grass as their bodies shake and shift into the human they pretend to be and silence left by their last breathes bring me peace.