<The Wolf Cult> is a worgen roleplaying guild on World of Warcraft, Wyrmrest Accord.
We are based on the secret order of worgen of the same name from WoW lore. As Wolf Cultists, we embrace the worgen curse with a passion, and are eager to share this "gift" with others. We run and hunt as a pack as we embrace our feral form, and use human form to walk unseen in the human world.
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Raedolf had always said worgen were intended to be creatures of the night. Having been awake by day to speak with the villagers, and now up and waiting at night, drowsiness had begun to set in. An ear flicked as it began, and glowing golden eyes shot open in the darkness as he heard the distant sound. A sound he’d heard many times before, in pack life. Yet, try as he might, he could not seem to discern the howl’s true meaning, as one might with a wolf, or especially a worgen. He felt his head raise, instinct and habit already kicking in and directing him to howl in return. Yet he choked on it, keeping it down, mindful of the triggerhappy village behind him. Instead, he abandoned his hiding spot in the bushes, in favor of pursuing this distant cry. If it was a worgen, perhaps best spoken with away from the town. If it was something else entirely… best to fight it without being seen. He howled not, but ran carefully into the woods to the northeast.
The howl didn’t repeat, and from it silence fell around him. Yet, as he pursued it, he’d instead hear a struggle off in the distant, the crashing of wood, and snapping of bone, before a gutteral roar. And it seemed he was headed in the right direction.
In pursuit of the unnatural howl, Raedolf found himself leaping from the ledge to the metal roof of an outlying cabin, taking this moment to get a good view of the forest, if he could. His eyes pierced the darkness, while his ears kept on alert for any possible sounds within the house. Again, he had been prepared to howl. Yet at the sound of voices beneath his feet, he quickly decided otherwise. He swore, inwardly, at the sheer lack of space on his island, before leaping off the roof, landing on two legs - and bracing himself with an arm - in the forest across the road.
More crashes and the sound of struggle met his enhanced hearing, leaves being kicked around in whatever scuffle that was happening. The scent of coven witchcraft may even begin make itself known, but also the same lupine scent he had encountered at the farm, albeit much less diluted and mixed with swine. On his way, he may even catch sight of paw prints. Large, and bulky, it pressed deeply into the soft earth; only helping to affirm is quarry.
Confident the racket did not seem to be coming his way, he crouched low, pressing onwards under the cover of bushes and low hanging branches. Hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, as the signature Drust chill ran down his spine, his sixth sense alerting him to the unsettling aura permitting from something in the forest. He paused, and thought perhaps to ready a silver bolt instead, when he picked up the distinct lupine scent once more. Golden eyes zeroed in on bits of shed fur caught on bark of a tree, and he looked down, only to step out of a paw print far larger than his own. Eyebrows raised, and he lowered himself further, pressing on unseen. He didn’t have the full picture yet, but, as he stepped through the forest, he would soon enough.
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