Beast of Gevaudan

I decided to write this story on the beast of Gevaudan after reading the info on http://labete.7hunters.net/bete1.htm.

It was 1765 and Marie and Jeanne, two sisters were headed home from church. Marie was 15 and Jeanne was a year younger. The sun had set and the hours between dog and wolf had passed. The path was well lit by the starlight reflecting off the freshly fallen snow. It was cold and the girls took turns trying to make shapes with their visible breath in the night air. Church had been boring again. But it was always their tradition to go on Sunday nights. Both sisters were anticipating the hot tea their mother would have on the stove when they got home. Marie began to whistle a hymn. Then, a twig snapped. Instantly both girls froze. Both knew that the beast had been seen in a town not far away. The legends told of a wolf like beast the size of a bear with a tale strong enough to knock a man to the ground and teeth like kitchen knives that dripped blood. Terrified the two girls snuck forward quickly and quietly. They tried not to remember what the peddler a had said about what remained of its last victim, little more than a hand and clothing. Again they heard something moving in the brush to their left. Snatching Jean's hand, Marie started to run. The exit to the forest was just ahead. From there they would be able to see their home. Their feet fell quickly upon the path. A growl sounded to their right. Casting her eyes about the path, expecting to see La Bete at any second. She thought she saw eyes in the shadow of a tree a few yards in front of her. A sudden tug jerked her from the path and forced her to release her sister's hand. Paniced, she looked back. Jeane was lying on the ground with eyes full of fear. Marie looked passed her and saw the root sticking out of the ground. Both got to their feet and dashed for the exit. Clearing the woods and dashing across a small bridge Marie glanced back to see a black blurr disappear into the weatfield. Horror gripped her heart, but the light from the windows of her cottage gave her hope and spurred her on. The wheat in the field to their left was swaying as the pursuer chased them. Suddenly Marie heard a stifled scream. Looking back, she screamed in terror. Jean was gone. All that remained were dots of crimson upon the snow where her tracks had suddenly disappeared, replaced by huge wolf like prints. Screaming for help and crying Marie stumbled to the cottage. She reached for the door and caught her last glimpse of the beast before her hand touched the latch. She didn't have time to scream. Only seconds passed before her father ripped open the door with enough power to nearly tear it from its hinges. All he found were her shoes and blood on the snow. The next morning, a search party turned up what was left of Jean and Marie. They were only recognizable by the terrified look they still had in their eyes.

This is too morbid for my style so here is the alternate and more awesome ending. Suddenly, Marie heard a stifled scream. She turned to look back and fell as Jeane crashed into her. Looking up she saw the beast standing over them jaws dripping, eyes smoldering like embers, and orangish fur standing on end. Its foul smell permated the air. The beast muscles tightened as it prepared to pounce. Crack! The silence was shattered by a gun shot as a hunter burst from the field and leapt onto the road between the beast and the girls. His wide brimmed hat flying from his sholders, as he jerked the ramrod from its hold and began to reload. The beast roared and came forward. The hunters greatcoat flew open as he dropped his gun and drew his sword. His slashing blow cut the beasts shoulder. Roaring in pain it jumped back into the wheatfield. With a quick glance at Marie and Jean, he scooped up his rifle and disappeared into the field into pursuit of the beast. Marie and Jean made it safely home that night, but the never forgot their run in with the Beast of Gevaudan.

Vargen

According to the legend, Vargen was a descendant of a Viking berserkers of old. Vargen was one of several the townsfolk of the small province of Roanoak. This medieval town was completely destroyed in the 1052 by the local lord as a precaution when a few villagers discovered that he was behind the disappearances of townsfolk and travelers, who he experimented upon. As it is told, he hired a murderous mercenary group to make sure no one lived long enough to spread the word to other towns. The village had no warning of the predawn attack. Vargen and the villagers fought as best they could, but the mercenaries soon overpowered them and every man woman and child was slain. Vargen received a sword across his chest during battle, but continued to fight furiously until one of the burning town buildings collapsed upon him. When he awoke in the light of the full moon, he found that the town had been looted and burned to the ground. He stumbled upon the bodies of his father and brothers beheaded and mutilated for their resistance. As he limped past the bodies of his mother, fiance, little children, and villagers he had known all his life, he felt remorse and pain for their loss. However, this was soon replaced with a burning rage, a drive for vengeance so powerful that his pain and fatigue seemed to be melting away. He vowed he would not die before taking revenge on those that had caused the death of everything he had ever known. His rage grew more and more violent, mixing with some ancient fury. A power passed down by his ancestors that had remained dormant for generations was awakened. The heavy ax that his father had wielded with two hands, felt light as he picked it up with his left hand. In his right hand he carried his brother's sword. His wounds seemed to stop bleeding. Even the sword wound on his chest did not trouble him, as he began to follow the path of the mercenaries.

He began running at breakneck speed through the woods. He could hear them. He could smell them. The darkness seemed as bright as day. He burst into the mercenary camp roaring in anger and hatred. Vargen's first victim did not even have time to raise his sword before Vargen's ax removed the his head. Vargen attacked with ferocious strength and fury. He felt no fear or doubt even though in the back of his mind he knew there were too many to kill. Vargen barely felt the first arrow, or the second, or the third. However, he felt things slowing down. He couldn't raise the ax or sword fast enough. His heart thundered in his ears. A spear pierced the right side of his chest. Vargen began to close his eyes, but his vow came back to him. He rammed his body down the spear killing his assailant. The memories of his family flooded back. The fury inside him flared again. Pain, anger, and that ancient power flooded his body. That night, in the camp of the mercenaries, the first piercing howl of the werewolf Vargen drowned out the shouts of men. Ripping the spear from his chest, Vargen dropped his weapons. The mercenaries screamed in terror as they stared upon the form of ancient beast neither man nor wolf. They tried to form a resistance, but the werewolf was too fast, too powerful. They were ripped apart. Their spears, bows, and swords and bows had little affect. Some fled to the woods only too be hunted down by a beast they could not hear or see until it was too late.

Only two men managed to make it to the castle of the lord that had hired them, Lord Brennik. Brennik refused to believe the men. The next day, four of the castle guards went missing. Three more fled as rumors spread. That night, the two remaining men and Lord Brennik remained in the uppermost chamber of the tower, which was over four stories high. It was to no avail. When the werewolf came through the window, he threw the man closest to him out window. Lord Brennik ran for the door. Too late he tried to lift the bar. The wolf was on top of him. Vargen's claws pierced Brennik's skin as he drug Brennik toward the open window. Guards pounded on the door, but the bar held it shut. The only remaining man saw the now healed scar that ran across the werewolf's chest. He fell to the ground and begged forgiveness. Vargen might have crushed the man had Brennick not stabbed Vargen in the leg with a long dagger. Roaring in anger. Vargen carried Brennick to the top of the tower. The next day, blood could be seen dripping from the highest parapets, but no body could be found. The only mercenary survivor fled the country. Vargen never returned to any of the villages or the castle. But, many of the villagers claim to have heard his mournful howling and travelers often tell of having been greeted by or sharing a meal with a hunter who disappeared in the middle of conversation. Many believe Vargen remains to protect the resting place of his family. Others believe he is some sort of vengeance that will hunt evil tirelessly, and some say he never existed.