Lycanthropy: noun. A condition by which one assumes the form and characteristics of a wolf during a full moon by way of witchcraft, which is usually passed through the bite of one so afflicted.

 Sapienthropy: noun. Something far, far worse...

PROLOGUE

HE COULD FEEL THE STEEL-HARD GRIP of clawed hands holding him tightly as he awaited the passing of his sentence. A dread, previously unknown to him, had coursed through his entire being as he envisioned how horrendous his existence was about to become. As he waited for 'He Who Judges All' to enter the massive room he now stood in, he afforded himself a moment to take in his surroundings. Four tiers of stone bleachers arranged in a semi-circle encompassed more than half the large hall and were filled to capacity. The black moss-encrusted walls beyond the bleachers stretched high into darkened shadows. This kept their height a guarded secret. Looking straight up, he could see nothing but an unforgiving blackness giving the illusion, if illusion it was, that the hall had been situated at the bottom of an impossibly deep pit. Directly before him loomed the High Magistrate’s massive podium of stone, which was adorned with a myriad of glyphs from an ancient language unfamiliar to him. To either side, twin columns danced upwards three times his height, each comprised of the bones of the previously condemned. Atop each pillar burned eternal flames, which flooded the chamber in various shades of scarlet.

He had never been to the Hall of Decrees before, not even as an observer. Yet here he was, accused and surrounded by an audience of both familiar and unfamiliar faces offering not a shred of pity. The glares of dozens of onlookers in the circular enclosure burned into him with varying degrees of disgust and ire. He heard the epitaphs spat in his direction and could understand their anger, as they already considered him guilty. He heard his name called out, demanding he kneel in subjugation, to which he complied.

The High Magistrate emerged from the shadows and took his place behind the podium. His face was almost completely hidden behind his ceremonial blood-red and ebony cloak. He slowly raised his bone gavel high above his head then slammed it down with a deafening finality urging the onlookers into silence.

The accused focused on the words of he who was about to judge him. The High Magistrate read the charge against him, causing the audience to stir with a mixture of growls and hisses. His mind drifted back momentarily to two evenings previous, when his modest living hovel was invaded in the middle of the night by the Magistrate’s enforcers. At the time, his mind had been lost in a strange fog, but he remembered being forced from his sleeping area. He recalled also, seeing through hazy eyes the reason he was being charged and not understanding how it had happened.

The Magistrate addressed him by name and half-heartedly asked, "Omen-Ab'Stothe, how do you plead to this insidious crime to which you have been accused?"

He once again denied the accusation brought against him, even though he knew it was in vain. Any defense he could give would fall on inattentive ears. He knew full well, as did every other entity in the hall, that this proceeding was a time-honored formality, but once one was brought to the hall, the outcome was always preordained. Supposedly, according to the charge at hand, he had managed to break one of the very few laws in this forsaken realm and now had to face the consequences of his alleged actions.

How could he have done such a thing? And if he had, why could he remember nothing of the event in question? He had always been loyal to the code without question, which only added to the absurdity of the charge he was now facing. Yet, he remembered what they had found in his living quarters, in his sleeping area. The circumstances that led up to that point, however, still eluded his recollections as he listened to the High Magistrate pronounce sentence. The horror of the moment consumed him as the cloaked figure raised a clawed hand towards him. Hateful eyes leered at him from all directions. The conclave of onlookers bared their teeth at him in disgust. Hidden in shadow at the back of the room, he thought he could see a pair of burning red eyes hovering over a Cheshire-like grin of yellowed fangs and spittle.

The Magistrate’s booming voice brought his attention back to the stone podium. He was unceremoniously thrown to the center of the court, to a six-sided recessed section of the stone floor. The High Magistrate then began to voice a series of ancient arcane phrases. He roared his disapproval, once again proclaiming his innocence, but nobody paid any heed. Beneath him, in response to the Magistrate's incantation, the floor glowed with an eerie incandescence. He tried to step from the glowing circle beneath him with no success. It was as though his feet had been secured in place, yet he felt no such restraints. Swirls of strange and unfamiliar colors streamed up from below him, slowly circling his body like a den of venomous ground huggers. His balance had been disrupted as he felt the room, or perhaps just the area he was standing in, start to spin. He felt as though his entire body was now being crushed and found he was having trouble catching his breath. What was happening to him?

He thought he caught a scent of something sickeningly sweet, but it had vanished as quickly as it appeared. His eyes blurred as an alien sound accosted his ears. The familiar scarlet shades of his environment faded to black, and he thought for sure he heard sardonic laughter in the distance. For a split second, it all stopped. He could see, hear, and smell nothing. Before he could get his bearings, he was falling as though the rigid stone floor supporting him only a moment before had turned to acrid smoke. The falling sensation lasted several seconds before he crashed hard to the ground.