Courting Amongst Hanoverian Elites, Part 1
‘It’s not the prints on the pauper’s body, that give away the nature of the beast — t’isn’t the howling reported prior, nor the claw marks. T’isn’t a thing here at the scene. It’s what’s missing —
no heart in the body.
The lungs were ripped out, but not eaten. No other organs, neigh flesh missing, only ought else relatively mauled…
This bespeaks of a special Animal of Man.
I’ve encountered werewolves before — any Constabulary Inspector of any City Watch might. We talk about them at our conferences in Amsterdam. Ah, those conferences…
Most are ensavaged, then ashamed, and confession is rarely a problem. Catching multiple fresh beast-spawn on the same night… well, that’s why we on the Watch all dread full moons. But ‘tis nary a quarter moon, and this beast is striking…
Striking at will, it seems; stealing hearts, and eating the raw iron-ic strength of that bloody beating vessel.
Will-Wolves are different beasts, than your usual werewolf.
They are not bound by the moon — thus, many embrace the hunt on darker nights.
Often, though it’s just as often left unsaid and unacknowledged, Will-Wolves are of the Aristocratic, or at least Burgher, class — the out-of-control werewolves Watchmen dealt with at full moons are just the survivors of persistent attacks by those wolf-kin that could change at-will.
This is a ‘theory’ of some of the more jaded of the Constabulary…
I am one such, if you must — jaded.
Getting more jaded all the time, with being mocked by a particularly vicious predator: the bodies, so far, have all been left out in the market square, and not discreetly disposed of (which I think really is how you keep a custom like literal canine predation upon the lower classes going intergenerationally, is by being discreet about things — but what do I know?).
The killings started about a half-moon after that delegation from Saxony arrived… the delegation with the hirsute Princess, and her to maybe be betrothed to our beloved wolfish Princeling, at that.
One thing I’ve always admired about the nobility, especially in their relationship to law-and-order municipally: they don’t mince words at all.
I asked my Liege once, if his sons and/or one son’s fiance were killing citizens and ripping out their hearts and leaving the bodies mutilated in prominent public places for any particular reason, and Sire said simply,
‘Haha, young love, my friend. Tis all for young love…’
And that was the first, and last, time, that His Majesty ever called me ‘my friend’. So you can understand why I was happy to continue covering up the vicious murders.
That was about 20 years ago now…
My guess would be, this fresh batch means grandkids soon.
Throw it into the cart with the others, mark it as ‘accidental’.
Tell the night officer to limit patrols in this area — and only three or more men together, with torches.
Tell the night officer that if the men hear something that sounds like a big angry dog ripping out a peasant’s heart, they’re to… just look the other way, and keep walkin’.
…
What’s that? Yeah, well — they can be heartless, if they have to be.
Tell em it’s just the nature of the beast…’
