The Wolfsbane Chronicles

“The moon rose and never set and even the starlight was pale and dim. Creatures came from the pitch recesses of the land to hunt, and not just any beast was their prey — their prey was us. One of these many beasts was the wolf. They came in two varieties: there were ones big as horses and agile as deer, with the quick bite of an adder; these were called dire wolves, for their howls sounded of death and destruction. The other was just as large, but stockier, and denser, and these were nigh unkillable. Their hide was tough as a boar’s and their fangs were like daggers, long as my forearm. Their bite crushed bone like that of a hyena. But that wasn’t the most terrifying, oh no, for these worgs, as they were called, bestowed any person bitten by them a curse: lycanthropy.
“By the moon these so-called lycanthropes would turn from their humanoid forms to that of a bloodthirsty monster, who, in turn, changed more people from pure to half-blooded werewolves.
“Our kind lived in fear, little pup. Every day we prayed we’d live to see another dawn and every night we asked that if they came, death was swift. Some did indeed survive, but many, many were lost. The wolves would sing their Huntsong and fall upon small villages or camps as a gryphon on its prey. By the time they realized what was happening, it was too late.
“For thousands of years the Pack reigned. But then, as the sun rose in the east, a woman, too, came. She would no longer accept being the hunted.
“‘Come forth,’ said she, ‘and together we shall fight. For around us lies death and terror, but we can change it. Take up arms and battle, for our enemies are made of flesh and blood like ourselves. No longer shall we cower like lambs to the slaughter, but we shall be that which bites back!’
“So saying she rallied the humans, the halflings, the gnomes, and thus formed the Alliance, an unbreakable pact between races that we would forevermore be kin. Together they made the Hunters, an order that stood for equality and law, but, above all, they would protect the innocent.
“The war was waged for many years and even now it is not done,” my father continued in his soft purr of a voice. “Avren was killed by a wolf of the name Agrona, a worg the color of flame. But when she died, she bestowed upon us one last gift, little pup. She gave us a star, the first one to rise in the morn and the last to set in the eve: Akaron. It is there to remind us that even in the darkest of night there is a spark that can be kindled and lit and turned into a burning flame; the light may always triumph.”