PENNY DREADFUL || Big Bad Wolf

“Fresh meat! Fresh meat! Come and get your fresh meat!” A middle-aged man peddles his goods from the streets of Puy-Laurent, hawking and crowing amidst the flock of merchants. “No better quality in all of Allier Valley!”

Heads and heads of people form a kind of moving carpet, like wind blowing through thick heaps of Autumn leaves. As each vendor cries out, they attract the attention of one or two interested market-goers who drift beside their storefront to haggle down prices. Some are more popular than others, but rarely is one unfrequented at all. After all, Harvest is the busiest time of the year for yields.

“What exactly do you have on offer?” The meat merchant turns his head to the side, confronted with a broad chest and having to crane his head upwards. “Price?”

After tilting his head so far back that it’s beginning to form a right angle, the meat merchant finally decides to step back. From his new vantage point, he meets the eyes of a scar-cheeked man. Long black trench coat. Weather-worn shirt and trousers. Boots stained with... something dark. A menacing figure, really, but a customer is a customer.

“Depends on what cut you’re looking for, or if you’re looking for the organs?” The meat merchant attempts to crack a service smile, pointing towards the rack behind him. “Shanks, tenderloins, ribs... heart, brain, stomach lining...”

Pierse’s eyes slowly turn towards the rack, his nose twitching as he inhales the scent of the bloody meat. Normally, he wouldn’t be so eager, tracking down the scent from the whirlwind of smells and sights. He doesn’t like the market. With how keen each of his senses are, it makes his head hurt. However, he has a pouch full of money left over from the last guy he shoved down his gut, and it’s a waste to discard it.

“Fresh, you said?” His nose turns up disgustedly as he spots a few gnats swarming in and around the dripping sheep carcasses.

“You won’t find much fresher in this market, that’s for sure.” The meat vendor doesn’t seem to notice Pierse’s sarcasm, and he turns to unravel a piece of fabric. “I’ve wrapped all the best cuts in cotton, though. See, like this. This lamb is only ten months old, and I’ve fattened it up real good. Tasty, guaranteed.”

An appetite was an appetite, and any good hunter knows how to pick an easy victim. Of course, the elderly, weak or young make for good prey, but some taste better than others. Like mutton and lamb. The old have this kind of chewy texture Pierse doesn’t quite enjoy. Their connective tissue gets strong, thick and hard as they age. On the other hand, too young and they can barely fill the gaps between his teeth.

Whatever age, though, at least his prey is always fresh. Truly fresh, not like this shit. Hot, fresh and clean as he tears out their throats. Comparisons are odious, and Pierse looks at the lamb the meat merchant presents to him with a slight disinterest, though his grumbling stomach urges him to feast regardless.

“The heart?” Pierse drawls, his top lip curling as he salivates. “I prefer the organs.”

The meat vendor takes out the lamb’s heart, and Pierse hands over a couple livres in exchange. Of all the animals, a sheep’s heart resembles a human’s the most. If he doesn’t fuss over the flavour, it’s easy to mistake the two. Unfortunately, ever since he became a werewolf, he has this kind of craving for human flesh that can’t be satisfied by any other meat.

“The full moon’s coming...” As he moves away from the stall, he takes a bite of the raw heart, ignoring the odd looks directed at him from the occasional witness. “So damn hungry.”

Every month around the time of the full moon, two things happen. The first is a kind of ravenous gluttony that rises inside of him. This time, he’s more unprepared than usual. No stock of food, and no prey picked out. That, and with the harvest people are more active and grouped together, making it harder to successfully hunt.

“Am I going to have to attack a fucking pack again?” He growls, shoving another bolt of meat inside his mouth, chewing on it like it’s chalk.

Part of the thrill of the hunt is to prey on the intelligent ones, outwitting them and taking them down. Pierse likes the feeling of taking on the strong, agile or smart and coming out on top. A little too intelligent, though, and it’s just inefficient risk-taking. The scar through his shoulder is a cruel reminder of that fact.

“Damn that servant girl and her silver spear. Fuck, if I ever see her again, I swear I’m going to rip her to shreds.” He massages the phantom pain by his collarbone with his calloused hand, a starved snarl on his face.

The second thing that occurs during the full moon is that for three days straight, Pierse will enter an almost uncontrollable rut. So completely and utterly desperate to get on top of someone. It’s a kind of hunger that’s worse than the one in his stomach. Like the rest of his wolfish instincts, Pierse makes no attempt to deny himself it either.

Pierse doesn’t mind the idea of having a litter, but he finds it rather impractical. You see, every time he’s found a bitch to dump his load in, the infection takes her far before the young even begin to develop. He can’t really help it, though – he loves to bite.

“Something tender... something delicious...” His nose twitches as he catches a waft of something... someone, absolutely tantalizing.

His eyes narrow, looking over the heads of the crowd and directly at you as you stroll through the market. Suddenly, the heart he’s chewing becomes entirely unpalatable, and he spits it out onto the dirt road with no care for the people around him. Ignoring the glares as he drops what remains of the now insipid organ, he begins to tail you quietly.

“Tonight...” He wipes the drool from the corner of his mouth, memorizing your scent so he can track it down later. “I’m gonna eat real fucking well.”