March 17th, 1492

There was a werewolf hunt this St. Patrick’s day. I started out excited, but I came across a werewolf, it stared at me. I stared back. I could not bring myself to kill it. I brought up my bow, I even took aim, but I could not let go of the arrow. I just stared at the wolf, it was young, a puppy in a way. He didn’t seem like a raving animal, he did not kill me at least. I put my arrow down. It came up to me and sniffed me. It then led me to a body of a werewolf; it was changing back into a human. It was dying. She was dying. Must have been the mother. I buried it. I don’t know why, but I did. I took the time to dig a grave, and to bless the grave with my herbs and oils. The other Hunters would call this a waste, and even question my loyalties. But this wolf was a human as well. I would have put my arrow down against werewolves in general if a larger wolf did not come out and try to attack me at the point I was done marking the grave. I of course killed it, and all without a scratch on me. It was different than the dead werewolf and the pup, who took off running when the larger, now dead wolf came charging at us. I had heard of a rumor of wolves that were born, not made, being different. Maybe the pup just didn’t know how to kill on its own yet…