Buckshot & Wolfsbane

An Introduction to Werewolves

"There are no accidental meetings between souls." - Sheila Burke

On the second of June 1977, Isabeau Dunn shot her future husband, Remus Lupin.

Of course, at the time, she was not aware that she was indeed shooting her husband-to-be, or that she was even interacting with a human being at all. It was a full moon on that particular night, and as everyone knows, a werewolf is hardly the chatting sort...

Their story began in Bibury, a picturesque little town in the Cotswolds where nothing ever happened and whose residents were content to keep it that way. It was just after four in the morning, an hour in which most things were quite still, save for the one-eared tabby named Baxter, who hissed at the window in such a vile manner that it roused young Isabeau from sleep.

She glared at him with one eye over the edge of her pillow, mentally willing the tiny beast to calm down. When he did not, she took said pillow and tossed it at him. Baxter hissed louder, beating the thing into submission before fleeing from her nightstand into the closet.

"Ruddy cat," Isabeau groaned before turning over, already missing her pillow, but completely unwilling to retrieve it.

It was as her consciousness was beginning to slip that Isabeau heard a curious noise outside. The sound of something large scraping against the house, grinding against the rock that served as their walls.

Now, the Dunns had lived and worked the land of Bibury for the last one hundred years. They were sheepherders – damn good ones too – coming to regard their flocks as more precious than their very lives. As such, every member of the Dunn family tended to be overly curious and underly cautious, a trait Isabeau was the proud recipient of.

Had she thought better of it, Isabeau would have left well enough alone – their lands were at the edge of a thick spot of trees and all sorts of horrid noises lurked there – and nothing would have come of the creature stalking about outside. But then, she would not have been a Dunn, and there would be no story.

Instead, she rolled out of bed with a sigh and grabbed her coat strewn haphazardly across her desk.

Half awake, Isabeau shuffled across the cottage, utterly silent next to the sound of her father's snores from the other room. She briefly considered enlisting his aid, but decided against it. He would have to be up soon enough, and she wanted him to get some rest.

"C'mon, Major," Isabeau mumbled, nudging the large pile of fur on the ground. "Time to patrol the perimeter."

The mass, fully named The Major, was a wolfhound, and as proud a one as the name implied. He came up to Isabeau's chest, a gray behemoth that no other creature dared to cross, not the local dogs nor the ram of the flock, having learned a hard lesson two summers ago. So, the hound's pride, frustrating as it was, was warranted.

The Major huffed, stretching his long legs before joining Isabeau by the doorway as she threw her boots on.

Isabeau reached into the closet by the door, grabbing her father's double-barreled shotgun – resting between the broom and mop naturally – and tucking it under her arm. She took two shells from the shelf above and loaded them, grabbing a handful more for her jacket pockets.

Throwing caution to the wind may have been a trait of the Dunns, but they weren't complete fools.

A mist blanketed the ground that morning, burying her ankles in a shroud as she stepped into the yard. Though the sun was still well below the horizon, there was the barest hint of light covering the land, turning it from an inky black to various shades of gray and other dull hues.