Werewolf of Talos Island

[Paragon Vanguard]

"I am not Lawrence Buford," the handsome man said, pulling the long sleeves of his white button down shirt down closer to his hands. His nails were perfectly manicured, albeit somewhat long. His hair perfect, and his smile infectious. The waitress in the diner couldn't help but look at him every time she passed. offering a flirtatious smile of her own. His eyes would meet hers time to time, as if they knew each other, or at the least, what each other wanted.  
"I am not trying to out you," the reporter said, almost in a whisper, which was ironic, considering she was a reporter. Even in a City of Heroes a member of a team of well known archeologists being a werewolf is news, albeit maybe only second page news. 
"My name is Adam Allens, I don't have any connections to this Buford fellow," he said, and his handsome smile began to fade, as agitation began to set in.

His attention was now fully on her, and it made her uncomfortable now. There was something about him, she could not quite place it, but it was definitely an animalistic quality. 

"Mr. Bu....Allens, I don't mean any disrespect," she said, offering a pretty smile. "I would keep you anonymous, but I simply wish to do a study on what has happened."
"I told you, nothing has happened to me. You are confused or received some bad information, or saw something you aint seen lady, but I tell you now, you are starting to really get under my skin. You don't want to get under my skin," the man said, pulling his sunglasses down only a bit so she could see the seriousness in his eyes, as they settled on her for a moment. 

She now understood, despite his handsome smile and his overcharged sexuality, Mr. Allens was dangerous. Far more dangerous than Mr. Buford could ever be. 
"Are you ready to order," the waitress asked, breaking the tense connection between the two. 
Mr. Allens smiled at the waitress again, taking his sunglasses off and casually setting them on the table. His eyes were a bright, stunning green, and they seemed to capture the waitress completely. 
"I will have the beef chow mien, and whatever my lovely friend here wishes."
"I will just have some coffee for now," Dana Blanchard said, offering her own weak smile. The waitress did not pick up on the tension, in fact she barely even acknowledged Dana. Dana would not have been surprised if she completely forgot to bring her the simple order of coffee.

Besides, who just drank coffee in a Chinese restaurant. 

Mr. Allens watched the waitress walk away, unabashed, and not caring that his intent for the waitress was evident. 

"I meant no disrespect Mr. Allens," Dana said, her voice lacking any strength in it. 
"I feel none," Mr. Allens said, smiling again. "I simply wish you to stop snooping into my life. I am not saying that I have nothing to hide, I am saying I am not some werewolf, if those things even exist, and that I am definitely not Mr. Buford, whoever he is."
Dana understood, and believed him completely now. Mr. Allens was not Mr. Buford. She met Mr. Buford, and he was kind, and considerate, and very much not dangerous. She also had to admit she could be wrong about the whole werewolf thing. In Paragon City, stranger things lurked about. 

Much like the waitress Dana felt some kind of animal attraction to him, on some deep level. It was very sexual, and very base. However, unlike the waitress, she also felt repulsed by him, but on an intellectual level. He was a killer, of some sort, she knew that. Surely that was what he meant by 'I am not saying I have nothing to hide'. 

"Well then, let us change the subject and just enjoy the lunch," Dana offered, and he smile, relaxed, and agreed. He was charming when he wished to be, and at times she lost herself in his good looks, forgetting the tension of earlier. She also knew he had no qualms with letting her accusation go as long as he felt he had a chance at, at......at what? 
Sex? Maybe, but she was not sure.   

Dana left the restaurant in her Volkswagen Bug, and found herself shaking as she got to the stop light. She has always loved Talos Island, but she suddenly felt trapped and wished to be off the island. She did get her coffee from the waitress, and now she wished she had not drank it all, as the caffeine was not helping her nerves. Some of her distress was over taking the risk and actually talking to Mr. Allen. There was something else, though. Something deeper she felt as she looked in her side mirror. He was standing outside of the restaurant, fixing his tie. She saw the Asian waitress come out for a moment and hand him something, before hurrying back in. 
She knew what that was about, and felt a sense of jealousy suddenly. A feeling she did not like. A feeling she would not pursue. 

Mr. Allen put the phone number in his pocket, as he looked to the green Volkswagen sitting just a little bit too long at the green light, before hurrying off. She was safe, he had no desire to harm her. His desire was elsewhere, he thought, as he made his way down the street. The questions about a Mr. Buford was odd, and asking him about being a werewolf was just simply ridiculous. He was Adam Allen, and he was an independent contractor for The Family, or any other group that would pay.  He was dangerous, sure, but not like she thought. He liked staying under the radar, which is why he took very few contracts, and most of those involved the removal of street gang leaders. The Skulls or The Outcasts may have to fear him, but the pretty reporter did not. 
Mr. Allen looked up at the afternoon sky. It would be dark in a few hours, and he would enjoy an almost full moon. It seemed to invigorate him, though he did not know why. He did not know why, with the moon not even out yet, he knew exactly what phase it was in. He did not know why, nor did he question it. It was natural, not unnatural.  
Mr. Allen felt great. 
 

[Living_Hellfire]

Well done, mate. Keep it up! Keep writing!

[Paragon Vanguard]

(Warning: may be considered graphic)

 

Sally Wells walked through the back alleys of Talos Island. It was quiet, but it was Monday night and the night people were probably nursing their hangovers. Others were sound asleep, building up their energy for the next days work. She was leaving from a place she knew deep down she should not have been. He was a good looking young man, younger than her own 35 years, but he was also married. His wife was visiting her mother in Vermont. 

Why bother with a man that would bring you into his wife's ....., but she cut that thought off. She really did not want to think about it. She knew this was a relationship going nowhere, and she would be shutting it down soon enough. She didn't know why she was taking this long. 

Yes, I do, she told herself. I am as bad as he is, because I know this is convenient.

Sally had made a few turns, almost on autopilot. She parked her car in a garage several blocks away so no one would see it. She had walked this walk many times over, so she knew it well enough. 

Sally stopped, and listened.

She heard something. It wasn't really a human voice, but it had some kind of human quality to it. She listened, and shook her head when she did not hear it again. 

You are just hearing things, she told herself, as she walked on. The only real sound was her footsteps, and that was not even loud. Her flats didn't really make the clatter of heels. 

She heard it again, but this time it was a little closer. She turned and peered down where she had come from. There wasn't much besides trash cans and boxes set out for the mornings pick up. Still, she knew she heard something. 
"Is someone there," Sally called, and felt the hair on the back of her neck begin to stand up. 

She heard the snarl again, but it was coming from a side alley, which was darker than the one she was on. She could barely make out a large shadowy figure. 

"I have a gun," she lied, and knew in a moment a gun would not help her. 
The creature bound out of the darkness toward her. It was covered in hair, it's eyes a blazing yellow. It snarled with a wolflike snout, then let out a roar as it leaped towards her. Sally felt the heavy creature land on her, knocking her to the pavement, almost knocking her out as the back of her head struck hard. Looking up in sheer terror she wished she would have passed out. It could only be described as a werewolf, something she wasn't sure, until then, that she believed in. The smell was terrible, it's breath dark and coppery. It stared down at her, it's eyes locking with her's, causing sheer terror to well up from her gut into a loud scream. She closed her eyes and tried to scream again, but something coppery and wet poured out of her mouth instead. Before Sally Wells died, she realized it was her own blood, as the wolf creature tore into her throat. 

 

The creature looked around the alley. It could hear voices, but they were far off. It surveyed it's meal a moment. What little bit of human was in the creature felt a twinge of regret, but not in the act as much as that it had to be done. It had to feed. It would not eat the entirety of the woman. There were only parts of it that the creature desired. It wasn't a natural hunger. It was, something else. The full moon peaked from behind the buildings, and the creature howled long and loud in what appeared to be a tribute to the lunar light. 

[TygerDarkstorm]

Man, those are a great read; I look forward to more!

[Paragon Vanguard]

"I know who it is," Dana told Harland, her news editor. 

"No, you think you know who it is," Harland replied, looking over his glasses at Dana. They were a small newspaper, and quite frankly, newspapers weren't doing well considering everything is now online. Of course they had their website and sponsors but he knew his world was in decline. 

"If we can break this story Mr. Harland, if you let me break it, it will help......" she began, but Harland waved her off as he reached for a bottle of whiskey. He poured them both just a little more than a sip. It was something he did to calm his reporters down, and always felt it was a nice gesture. 
"I don't need your whiskey, Harland," she said, the offer obviously not having the effect he wanted. Instead she was insulted, as if he was doing it to shut her up.
Maybe he was, he thought.

"You should have seen him, he was hairy, even his hands. While he looked a little different, a little bigger, I am sure it was Mr. Buford. I know it was. It had to be. I watched him come from his house, he turned and locked the door. People just visiting do not turn and lock...."
"Did you go to the house and knock? Did you see if Mr. Buford was there? Was alive even? What if this man, who you think is dangerous, killed Mr. Buford, took his keys? Maybe he broke in and Mr. Buford was not home. Maybe...." this time Dana waved him off. 
"I did not, and I know where you are going with this, but I tell you, I spoke to him. I looked in his eyes."
Harland sighed. 
"Report what you know, not what you think. We aren't one of those kinds of newspapers. In fact, there was another death last night. A woman was killed."
"How?" Dana asked, and from the look on her boss' face she knew it had to be the same. The neck torn open, the heart and liver eaten. The body ripped to shreds. 
"Same," Harland said, this time he poured himself more than a sip of whiskey. "You are not the police Dana, you aren't one of those heroes that flies around in their undies, you are a reporter. You need to be careful. Even IF, and I mean IF, this Mr. Buford is who and what you say, just you sitting with him and talking to him can mean you are in danger."
Dana sighed, but did not even suggest whether she believed she was in danger or not. In fact, her mind was already on how to get more information on this new killing. 
"Dana, it could be a serial killer, it could be one of those mutants or even ritual killings from one of those satanic gangs. Be careful," he said, but she was already up and heading out, hardly even acknowledging what he said.

At least she smiled and waved before she hurried out of the room. What made her a good reporter put her in danger. Harland watched her as she made her way through the "bullpen", her blonde ponytail bouncing as she dodged other reporters and various workers, hardly noticing them. Talos Island was her beat. She gets the gang violence time to time, but these new killings were different. He knew if she could break the case, it would sell the papers, and they would be fine for a little while longer. However, it was not worth losing a good reporter, and a friend. 

Harland took a sip of his whiskey, then downed it and set the glass down harder than he wanted to. Letting out a sigh, he went back to his own work, but not before offering a little prayer that Dana would be okay. 

[American Valor]

May your quill never run out of ink.

I want to explain how good you are, I avoid almost all things horror related the title had me expecting, not what you delivered! It brought a smile to my face.  Thank you for that. Keep up the great work, no pressure right 😉  from one writer to another.

[Paragon Vanguard]

Lawrence looked over his glasses into the mirror. The water in his sink was running, but he hardly heard it. 
Man, how can I have a hangover if I don't drink, he questioned in his mind.

The stubble was thick, especially considering he shaved almost daily. He rubbed it and it made that sound, a sound he never did like. His dad use to wait days before shaving, and would rub his own chin that way. 
He loved his dad. He hated the sound. 
"To hear it again though, from him," he said aloud, and remembered his sink was filling with water.  

Lawrence thought it must have been due to illness, the reason he missed work and let his chin hairs grow so thick. Must have been, because he did not miss work, and did not let his chin hairs grow. He shaved daily for work. Yet, there it was. The gruff look again. By the time he stopped considering it all, he was well aware that he had been sick. He had diarrhea, the jirookies as his grandmother called it. He had no idea why she called it that, rest her good soul. Yet still, he had them. He was sure of it now. 

Lawrence always woke up early. Up at 5:00am, put the coffee on, shower, shave, make toast and sit at his kitchen table and read the newspaper until he had to go to work. It was pleasant, it was calming, and it was his daily routine. He liked his routine. It was probably why, at the age of 37, he was still not married and still had never really had a serious relationship. He would head to the museum at 8:00am, be there for 8:45am, punch in for 9:00am on the dot, as any good employee should, and set about working on exhibits. It wasn't the most adventurous work he had ever done, as there was the times he assisted on archeological digs, but he preferred the quiet work of the museum. His co-workers always wanted to hear the stories of the digs, but truth be told they weren't as exciting as it sounded. Days brushing in the heat. Uncovering something, maybe, that the funder or leader of the dig would get credit for and their name in a paper or even a book, with the finders name being a footnote somewhere to be proud of. 
No, Lawrence did not go for fun. He went for what he felt was duty to the field. He enjoyed arranging the pieces, making sure the captions were perfect, even humorous at times, and seeing the faces of the people that passed, never knowing it was he that set them out. So for that pleasure, he would do the hard work as well. 

Not today though. It was Sunday. The museum was closed, and he had the whole day to himself. It was a good thing that he was no longer ill, even though he hardly remembered being ill. Just that hangover feeling he had. He knew how they felt, he had drank too much wine one time at a museum gathering. His colleagues picked on him something awful after that.  He didn't mind, and just laughed at their jokes. It was all in good fun anyway. The nerdy, 6'3 skinny phd getting kissed on by the plump cleaning lady was a treat for them apparently. She did not go home with him, so he did not know what the big fuss was about. He paid for that night with a massive headache, stomach cramps, and a sense of not wanting to get out of bed. It was from the alcohol causing dehydration, which is what his bout with the stomach virus must have caused. He would skip his toast and coffee, and drink juice and then lots of water. That would help. His day would be fine, and he would go to work the next morning all the better. His boss never complained about his absences, he was an otherwise good employee. He just seemed to be getting sick more often than he had before. 

"Ever since that dig in South America," he said out loud. 
He had gotten very sick after he found that small entrance to the cave with all of the carvings and markings in it. He had not entered the small hole into the cavern, he just shined his light in. That was what he told them, so it must have been true. The dreams he had for a month after that though, they were something else. He had also been sick off and on since then, more often than he had ever been in his life. 

"Not today though," he said aloud, as he set about shaving and preparing for his day. It would be a good day. 

Lawrence Buford did have a good day, as soon as the ill feeling left him. It was terrible news, in his newspaper, about the poor lady that was mutilated, not that far from his home, near the Dirty Duck Bar and Grill. The gangs in the area were ruthless, for sure.  Other than that one bit of rotten news, it was truly a good day. 

Edited September 30, 2022 by Paragon Vanguard

[Paragon Vanguard]

(Warning: may be considered graphic)

 

Lincoln Charles got out the back of the limo, something he was growing ever more accustomed to. It was late in the night, but the moon was almost full, and gave off enough glow on the docks that he could see well enough to get to the warehouse. There was very little in the way of lights on this part of town, and for good reason. The people Lincoln worked for did not exactly want lights all around the place. 

Independence Port was the hub of imports and exports in this area, and by day, it was a busy busy place. There were still parts that would be running deep into the night, but these docks, the docks owned by men, like the men he worked for, were actually seldom used, though a look about said something different. The paperwork said something different. The workers would show up at a minutes notice, and say something different. The money, however, told the story, if he let it. That was Lincoln's job, at night, to make sure the money said something different. 

"What's done in the dark Lincoln," the young handler said aloud to himself. 
The job paid better than anything in the public sector for sure. He was by all accounts a, well, an accountant. He got the job when his talent for numbers was noticed by one of the many organized crime families. How could they not notice, he was cleaning them out in their "casino". 
Casino, really. It was just some bums in a warehouse who had no idea what they were doing but wanted to get rich doing it, he had thought. 
He knew better now. Everything his boss did was on, and for, some kind of purpose. Even the majority of those working for him did not know exactly what he was doing or why until the plans came together. He had heard one of the thugs say that. 

The limo, the driver, the very nice apartment in Atlas. All of this kept Lincoln Charles in the game, and he was in the game now, as Jim had told him. His hands were dirty, as dirty as any of the killers that walked around the place. Yet to anyone outside of "the business" he was just a young clean nerdy looking numbers cruncher. No fuss no muss, low key, low profile, smile and say hello to everyone as if you cared. That was Lincoln, but the business did not do this to him. He was a shark before that, making money off of legit businesses who had no idea he had such an affinity for numbers. 
As he approached the side door to the warehouse he smelled something awful. It smelled like piss, but far worse. He drew back a moment, and covered his nose. Luckily there was one lone light above the door, shining on it, insuring the door was not covered with some bums salty lemonade. Lincoln wore the finest clothes money could buy, because quite frankly it was not his money, and he had no desire to soil them with this odor. It was horrific. 

Lincoln tried the door, knowing it was probably unlocked. Why bother, he would enter and there would be guards and gangsters and everyone, except him, would be packing. It was not locked, and Lincoln walked in, turned to his left, and walked up the sharp stairs to the office above the warehouse. Usually he would have met with the guards by now, but sometimes they were few in numbers and hung out playing cards or shooting dice or doing what low brow thugs did to pass the time while some egghead crunched numbers that should never be crunched. 

As Lincoln entered the office his mind was on his briefcase and the information in it. It was important, and it was something that would make the organization rich, or put their boss Big Jim in prison for a long time. He knew it was his job to make them rich, because if Jim was even spoken to about his numbers he may find himself at the bottom of the bay, literally, with the fishes. As cliché as that was. 
"Hello," Lincoln called out, when he did not see anyone.
No one answered. 
"I am here," he said louder, figuring the guards would be somewhere within earshot. Probably drinking, or maybe even had a hooker or two in one of the other rooms. He never knew what they would be up to before he got there. He knew he was to always insure they were sober, or sober'ish, while he worked. He was to report directly to Big Jim if they were otherwise. He was never told anything about if they were pumping some whore from the docksides. He had no plans of ever telling on these thugs anyway. He valued his life above everything else. 

"Hello Lincoln Charles," the man said from the shadows at the back of the room. He was sitting on the leather couch, that Lincoln himself would sometimes nap on when waiting on packages. He had apparently poured himself some rum, but his voice did not sound as if he was drunk. 
"So they only sent one man," Lincoln asked, a bit annoyed that his safety was not being considered this night. 
"Only need one man, Lincoln Charles," the man said, his voice thick and gravelly. Or was it growly?  
"Fine fine, just keep an eye out," Lincoln said, sounding annoyed, but truth was he was not annoyed. He didn't really care, he only did this to make himself seem in charge. It worked on most of the men, they knew he was important. Hell, a thug able to point a gun was easy to find, but an accountant of his abilities was near impossible, or at least that was what he told himself. 
He would not tempt that fate with higher than street level thugs though. 

"I did keep an eye out, Lincoln Charles. In fact, I kept two eyes out. I even left my mark as I insured there was no one around to bother us," the man said, leaning a little into the light. 
He was a handsome man, if not a bit hairy. He wore a nice suit, though it was a little tight on him. That wasn't such a bad thing, as he seemed muscular enough. The top three buttons of his white shirt were open revealing an impressive carpet of hair on his chest. His casual black jacket was open. His slacks were some, no doubt, foreign expensive brand that Lincoln, being a clothes hog himself, could not quite place. Lincoln would love to meet the man's tailor. 
He was not some low level thug.

"Well, my apologies sir," Lincoln found himself saying without even considering that he should say it. 
He was scared, and he was not sure why. 

"It is quite okay, Lincoln Charles," the man said, the gruff voice not changing, showing no signs of being annoyed.

He kept using Lincoln's full name, as if he was some high school principal and Lincoln was in trouble. Lincoln did not like this, and he felt he should just be irritated by this, but he was not, in fact, he was getting even more scared now. 

The man put his empty glass down, and smacked his lips as if satisfied. 

"You folks live fine, fine indeed," he said, getting up now. He was about 6 feet tall, not much taller than Lincoln, but he was much bigger, and looked far heavier with his muscular frame. 
Lincoln looked back to the door he entered through, and considered running out. If the man was dangerous to him, it would be a natural thing to do. If he was not, it would seem really odd for him to bolt and run. It was while he was considering this that the man crossed the room, fast, in fact, a part of Lincoln's highly intelligent, number counting mind, told him too fast.

Lincoln was pushed down to the floor by a hairy, sharp nailed hand. 

"I was sent, to send a message," the man smiled, showing teeth that were a little to big for his mouth. Especially the canines. 
"I, I will pass on whatever message, I swear," Lincoln said, but could hardly breath with the man on top of him. He was far heavier than Lincoln would have thought. 
"I know, but I have bad news. You are neither needed nor wanted alive when you send it," the man growled now, sounding more animal like. 

He was enjoying this. 
To his credit, Lincoln Charles tried to fight. He tried his best, but nothing he did even phased the man. In fact, he just laughed a guttural laugh, perfectly amused. Lincoln found himself flipped, quite easily, onto his stomach, face pushed into the floor while his shirt and jacket were ripped open. 
"This is going to hurt," the man said, as Charles felt the claws writing something deep, very deep, into his back. Charles screamed, loud and high pitched and not caring what he sounded like. He screamed even as a part of him knew no one would hear him. It was by design, this part of the warehouse district, with it's crime families and murders and rapes and things people were paid to turn a blind eye to.

He would not be heard. No, not here. 

 

Adam Allens poured himself another drink. It was very good rum. Some would say not to leave such prints and DNA lying around, but organized crime did not contact the police to tell them that someone who was doing something they should not be doing was killed by another man working for people doing things they should not be doing. No fuss, no muss. It was why he liked working these types of jobs. 
Adam's lips curled up a bit, as he swallowed the drink, and fought the urge to eat the man. It was a strange urge he had. It was something deep down that was trying to force him into such a strange act, but the human in Adam Allens would not give in. He was a hired killer, not a serial killer. Not like that bum killing people on Talos Island. No, he was a professional, and was hired to perform right and proper.  

 

The Family wanted to send this "Big Jim" player a message about pushing in on their territory. Always go after the money and especially the talent to make and count money first, they said. The thugs can be paid off, like the guards were paid off to leave the warehouse early. Like the limo driver was paid off. Like Adam Allens would be paid off. 

They liked working with Adam, and he knew it. They had no idea who he was, and knew him to be some kind of eccentric hitman. You could only contact him at certain times of the month, and it would be a full month before he acted on the contract. It was how he chose to live. He would spend the rest of his time doing....
Adam stopped for a moment, and thought that over.

Surely he would be satisfying some young sweet or gambling or drinking or, or what? 
Adam shrugged it off. He lived a good life, it didn't matter. As long as he did not try too hard to put the pieces together his mind always filled in the blanks. 

Adam did what he always did after a kill. He would suddenly get the urge to urinate, and urinate he did. All over the fine leather couch that was soft, comfortable, and smelled much like his victim lying dead on the floor. 

Adam left his own scent, strong and full of testosterone. He knew it was odd, but it was his calling card, like other's left theirs.

One could not miss his. 

 

Edited September 30, 2022 by Paragon Vanguard

[Paragon Vanguard]

Writer's Note: Thank you so much for reading this, and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. I don't know characters until I start writing them, so they develop themselves as I go along. This was only intended as an introduction to my characters, and I write these considering that I may be the only one to read them, but that is how the stories go. Big Jim (the organized crime boss just mentioned) and Lawrence Buford are ingame toons. As you may have guessed, Lawrence is Adam Allens and the beast, depending on the moon stage. In novels werewolves have been depicted as the humanish kind and the full on wolf, so I thought, what if Lawrence Buford had a Dr. Jeckyll/Mr. Hyde style change when it got close to the full moon, and a full blown beast mode during full moon. 

I apologize if anyone was expecting an ending, but these are active ingame toons, and their story is not done. I do plan to revisit Lawrence on here, as Dana is trying hard to figure out what is going on and he is just starting to wonder himself. Surely she has a tale to tell about it all. But I don't know it yet. I don't plan these out, quite frankly I just own the fingers on the keyboard, the stories write themselves.  That is not a cliché', as cliché' as that is, it is truly what happens. 

 

Thank you so much for the kind words, the likes, and the encouragement. It truly inspires me to write more, even away from here. It means alot to me. 

 

One last note: You will, if you know the song, find some nods to "Werewolves of London" song by Warren Zevon. 

[TygerDarkstorm]

I have not written creatively in years (I'm not really counting the little blurbs that make up some of my characters' bios), but you have such a captivating style that I about found myself running for my pen and paper hoping I could capture people in a similar manner. Though you may have inspired me to at least write some of the stories I've had in my head for my characters down finally, even if it is just for myself.

 

I kind of love that you just write and develop the characters as it comes to you (I've let imposter syndrome and "advice" on the net overrun my desire to just write more than once because I wasn't writing the "right" way). I look forward to following along more with your characters as their stories move along both in game and you update them here. 🙂 And thank you for the inspiration.

[Living_Hellfire]

Dude, I can literally watch your writing improve with each post. Keep it up!