39

The morning sun finds you on the southern green, surrounded by at least forty wolves buzzing with nervous energy. The murmurs of the crowd form a dissonant wall of whispers that rises to an almost fevered pitch before settling down into a unifying theme: "Where is Ahote?"

The pack's question is answered soon enough as Ahote emerges from the elders' offices, shrouded in a brown-and-red tribal cloak rumored to have been passed down between pack elders for generations. Richly woven depictions of the pack's history cover every inch of the fabric, lending it the illusion of constant movement, a living, breathing symbol of the pack's legacy and tribal freedom.

A shadow looms in the darkness of the doorway behind the older wolf, emerging into the light with squinted eyes and a tightly drawn face.

"Haken?" a wolf next to you asks, incredulous. "If Ahote can bring him over to his side, maybe we have a chance with the humans after all!"

Ahote takes his place at the front of the line, raising his hands to the air. A sudden silence blankets the crowd. Lowering his hands, the old wolf takes in the pack with a glance that radiates the power of absolute authority. "We've come together today to honor the spirit of our ancestors and the heart of our tribe. We were once a free people, and one day we will be again."

Haken nods, a tight smile on his lips.

Ahote gestures in the direction of the military compound to the east. "The humans have overstepped their bounds, pushed us too far into the pit of subjugation. Today we will show them that we are not cattle to be prodded nor are we wild beasts to be put down. Today we will show strength, but this strength will be tempered by civility and a willingness to reason. We will show them our true forms, and we will know no fear!"

Next

On cue, both Ahote's and Haken's bodies begin to snap, their arms and legs elongating, the bone structure of their faces pushing outward into the muzzle of a werewolf's true form.

"Today," Ahote shouts out as his back snaps audibly, thrusting his torso several feet higher into the air to its full natural height, "we will walk through these streets unafraid to show who we really are. We are the werewolves of Haven! Uprooted and transplanted, but no less the pack we once were. March with me! And show the humans that we are not afraid!"

One by one the assembled wolves initiate their change, the snaps and groans of dozens of bodies transforming as one rising as a song of defiance. The noise echoes throughout the city streets with more ferocity than any chant or rebellious yell could hope to match. At that moment, two pacification squads march onto the road before you, dressed in black riot gear, rifles held in sling-ready position.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you remember the smaller confrontation between Tiva and the patrol squad. What could happen if this all goes horribly wrong?

Will you stand with your pack at the front lines or hold back in the crowd, hoping to draw less attention to yourself?

The crowd moves slowly forward, and you hold back, keeping to the rear of the procession. You feel a tap on your shoulder and turn skittishly to find Jolon's lean wolf form diminished within the shadows of his peers, hiding in plain sight.

"Fine day for a protest," the huntmaster says as he shifts his eyes from you to watch the front lines. "Best to keep your distance from the hot zones and use the crowd to your advantage. That way you can always be where you need to be at any given moment. Watch the edges, beware of flanking maneuvers, and never take anything for granted."

Before you can respond, Jolon melts back into the crowd, your eyes sliding off him unless you focus on his path. The line of the combined pacification squads stops short of the assembled wolves, some twenty feet down the street with an orderly clap of boots hitting the ground.

Ahote holds up a paw to signal a halt, and the pack slows, jostling you. Curious to see what's happening, you skirt to the side of the protesters where you can see forward.

A single human steps out from the center of the ranks and advances into the open, apparently unafraid of isolating himself in front of a packed crowd of angry werewolves in their full feral forms.

Decked out in full military regalia, the soldier's well-pressed uniform is liberally studded with colorful bars and small medals arrayed in almost impossibly perfect order. His brown hair is close-cropped and unremarkable, capping an indifferent face seemingly chiseled from stone. His eyes alone betray a sense of emotion, the fierce green orbs staring at the protesters with naked hatred. A rifle is held almost casually in his right hand, in sharp contrast to the rest of the soldiers' straps and careful grips.

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