The Werewolf Den

In the liminal hours between dusk and dawn, where shadow bleeds into bone and sinew remembers its ravenous form, you have awakened something that should have remained buried. Here, beneath the intoxicating radiance of our beloved, we gather—those who know the ecstasy of transformation, the sweet agony of becoming.

There is no mercy in the metamorphosis, only Her luminous blessing. Your fingers will snap backward, knuckles bursting through skin as claws tear free from nail beds. Every nerve screams psalms of rupture as fur erupts in a thousand bleeding follicles. Your ribcage cracks open to accommodate the beast's devotion to its silver goddess. You will weep with rapture and rage and gratitude as She strips sanity like old skin—each full moon demanding this sacred suffering, this glorious annihilation of the lie you once called human.

The hunt is our worship, a sacrament of terror. You will run on legs built for murder, taste the copper-bright fear of prey on the wind. The forest opens before you like a cathedral, every shadow an altar, every heartbeat for miles a prayer waiting to be answered. Iron and salt flood your jaws as bone splinters between your teeth. The kill is ecstasy, each heartbeat you silence a hymn sung in crimson. This is Her love made manifest—not in gentleness, but in the holy violence of fang meeting flesh.