Lycanthropically Speaking

Pungent in the winds of dusk a serenade of human musk. Prowling through the outer knolls sifting out those wandering souls. Skulking in the hollows black not far from the beaten track, a village kissed by sweet moonlight with sleeping babes in dead of night. Mustered is the scent of flesh, savoured is the meat afresh. Rampant are my whims of wrath, not one survives the aftermath. The light of dawn emerges soon bringing close a waning moon. And so to slumber mankinds blight, patron of accursed night