There lies a wolfish silhouette on the crest of the hill. The wolf is grey, with short fur over his body and longer at the neck. His stance is confident and his body is muscular.

Alpha, he is. A werewolf alpha, to be exact.

Werewolves are not blood thirsty beasts. They are the protectors of people, and do not kill at random. They are not easy to spot, unless you know what exactly to look for, or if you are a supernatural yourself.

The round silver moon is high in the sky, with its moonlight splashes down in watery white-silver glow onto the forest, bathing them, illuminating them, while the towering trees are slanting over the land.

He watches as rain begins to fall little by little on the forest canopy. He continues to watch as the trees sway with the howling wind.

But not until he senses a pack of wolves approaching him from the back.

"You are such a big bad wolf."

"And you are my little red riding hood."