You are the werewolf. You make trouble. Unseen, unknown,
undetected - until it's too late.
In the city the skies grow black with the fumes from the
iron furnaces, while the machinery of man scrubs away the last remnants of the
wild. Man has grown overconfident, arrogant in his prowess, sloppy in his
execution. Now the time is opportune, the nights grow longer, the winter
approaches, what man has built, you can destroy. But time moves swiftly, and
even now it may already be too late.
