Stowell, Werewolf Hunter

My Battle Buddy at DINFOS wrote this.

The night air brought a chill through Standton Park’s oldest and most run down cabin. It was an ancient and abysmal looking thing with cracked paint and gouged floorboards. Half the pipes running through the building had long since rusted out and others were hopelessly clogged. But none of this unsatisfying appearance had even the slightest impact on the lanky grim looking figure propped up in a dark corner of the cryptic cabin. The man just stood there silent and contemplating thinking about all that had come to pass to bring him here on this night. Stowell was no stranger to the bone shaking chill that accompanies loneliness in a place like this. He patted the left breast of his tattered overcoat and felt for the revolver it held. The cold steel of it gave little comfort but Stowell wasn’t in the business of comfort and the now howling wind outside promised only stinging cold pain. More than just the wind was stirring outside the cabin. A lurking black beast caught Stowell’s eye, he had found his mark. Stoic as ever he stepped out from the cabin, eyes flaring, an unholy fire behind a stone mask of apathy. Stowell glided over the snow covered ground stealthily approaching the now hulking figure. The creature’s back was still to him, something else was holding his attention. Step after step Stowell edged up on the beast until he could reach out with the revolver and touch it nearly. He fished a silver bullet out of his pant pocket and held it up to the moon’s light and for the first time, his stony face cracked into a sinister grin. In a swift fluid motion the bullet found it’s way into the revolver and Stowell swung the barrel up to meet the back of the giant wolf’s head. The night exploded in a bang and a shower of blood, finally the beast had been slain. Finally Stowell could sleep in peace.