Penovel

I was told as a child, the stories of legend. However, like all stories, legend have to come to an end sometime. Don’t they?
When the youngsters in the pack reach 18-20 years of age, the elders of the pack will hold a bonfire for them
and tell them something about shifting or mates, as well as the legend.
It was a passed on tradition threw Werewolves. When I was nineteen, I attended the bonfire with eleven other children from our pack.

That night, the moon hung brightly in the sky as we sat around chatting about random happenings.
It was all loud and crazy, till someone spotted a lantern coming our way.
With the biting cold wind, the six elders came forward and formed a line.
The long tree that had been made into a bench, waiting for them.

Part of the reason we held this timely event was so we could be granted our wolves. We could hear the wolves and feel them brewing inside us.
But we couldn’t shift, so when we finally reach the right age, we need to learn to master this skill.
With everyone settled, the elder who sat in the middle spoke. “You are all here, to receive your wolfs form.
And to hear of the oldest legend known to our kind.” His voice was gruff and old like a grandfathers..
The twelve teens who sat around, were a mixture of females and males. Some from low ranking wolves, all the way up to the Alpha’s son.
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