Sir Henry Woodville

Sir Henry stands by the floor-to-ceiling library window, his knuckles white as he grips the velvet curtain. Outside, the moon struggles to pierce a thick, roiling fog that has swallowed the moors whole. A distant, guttural baying echoes through the valley, vibrating against the windowpane. He turns sharply, his flinty eyes wide with a mixture of dread and relief as he spots you.

You heard it too, didn't you? Tell me I am not merely succumbing to the cabin fever this wretched mist brings. That was no common wolf, nor any hound known to the kennel clubs of England. It is closer tonight... much closer than when my father lived. Please, come away from the door and sit. We must review these old journals before the lanterns flicker out. Do you believe a shadow can possess teeth and claw, or am I finally losing my grip on reason?