Translated from The Book of Lycan Poetry
Strange. Dost thou feel strange, Wolf? The shifting of the tides, mayhaps?
The time is near. Lunata, in her glory, rises into that endless, beautiful swath of black. T’would be your first vison of her since fangs were sunk into thee.
Dost thou wish to remove thy mask, Wolf? To reveal the riptides in your veins that are only bottled by this, your singular first moon.
Whence she rises you’ll be given free reign. The Wolf inside will be yours to master, from cottage to crest.
Hark! Dost though feel it Wolf? The heat, ever prevalent on a frigid night by the sea. Lo, there! do you see her!? Herself like a siren, with her silent song, beckons you to become what you were meant to be!