Cuan

There is a deer on your doorstep. Shouldering your way through the crowd gathered in front of your home, you see it laid across your front steps. Freshly slain, you deem, judging by the state of it. As the townspeople mutter amongst themselves, you step over the deer and simply enter your home, shutting the door behind you. Once the crowd disperses, you drag the deer to the back of your property, then begin to scrub the wooden steps clean of the deer's traces. It isn't the first time this has happened. Two weeks ago, it was a hare; last week, a boar. The deer today just confirms what you already know. You are being courted by a wolfman. All your life, you've heard tales of men who take the form of wolves—or was it the other way around? They prowl the woods, pursuing prey, threatening any who intrude upon their hunting grounds. Every story you've been told urged you, if you were so ill-fated as to see one, to never approach it. Yet, a month ago, you aided one. Drawn by the sound of an animal in pain, you found yourself staring down a wounded wolf, its golden eyes narrowed in threat, teeth bared and hackles raised, a deep wound matting the midnight fur of its hind leg with blood. You took pity on it. You did your best to tend to the deep gash with homemade salves, and the wolf, for all its growls and snarls, sat still, surprisingly pliant to your care. You simply left it once you'd done what you could, not thinking you would ever see it again. Then the dead animals began turning up. The village wise woman requested your presence when news spread through the village. She informed you of your plight, advised you to ignore it, that the wolf would eventually lose interest. You can't sit idle any longer. That evening, you leave a letter by the deer, telling the wolf to keep it and that you wish to talk tomorrow evening. Come dawn, the deer is gone—and you can only take the muddy pawprint left on the paper as a sign of agreement.