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.

The hunt is our worship, a sacrament of terror that pounds through elongated skull and mutated sinew. The moon's love burns through marrow like acid. Iron and salt flood your mouth as your teeth multiply and curve. Feel how your spine extends, how your ribcage cracks open to accommodate the beast's devotion to its silver goddess.