The ringing of the bells grew louder with every step he took. Running on the wet, slippery cobblestone streets of the village of Evensend, he somehow already knew that he was too late. His heart was racing, not only because he was desperately trying to keep balance as he ran, but because this would be his defining moment. For two years now he had been tracking this beast, and now it was within his grasp. Sprinting up the street on which his destination was, he heard a scream of terror, which was promptly followed by a cold, eerie silence. Rounding the corner, he had arrived at his destination, the old Tomas Farmhouse. Pausing briefly to catch his breath and wipe the rain water from his eyes, he began examining the house closely. The door had been ripped off of its hinges and now lay in splinters inside. Cautiously, he stepped onto the old, wooden porch and slowly poked his head inside. Nothing moved, the wind and rain even seemed to stop for a moment as he closed his eyes and listened. Scratching coming from the upstairs bedroom, never a good sign. Drawing his revolver from its holster, flipping out the cylinder to check the ammunition. Silver, just as he had thought. Taking a step inside the door, he was greeted by the metallic smell of blood, another bad sign. Carefully walking to the landing of the stairs, he noticed a rather large clump of flesh lying on the floor on the bottom step. Covered in thick, matted hair…no, fur, he realized what this artifact was. Upon that step was the left claw of the beast he had been pursuing for so long. Slowly, he took his first step up the staircase. A scream, from the lower level bathroom. “He’s brought friends.” he thought to himself with a slight grin. No time for the poor soul in that bathroom. Charging up the stairs, he bounds down the hallway to the bedroom, kicking the wooden door in with much ease, his eyes come to rest on the beast. Thickly matted, grey fur covered the creature from head to toe, a mouth full of razor sharp teeth, with only one paw, and one eye. The monster, turning its attention to this new visitor, and springs to action. A shot erupts from the pistol with a thunderous bellow and the creature falls to the floor, bleeding and obviously dead. Transformation begins and there, on the floor, lies the lifeless figure of the town blacksmith, Armand Asadame. Then, as he turned around another of the beasts hurdles up the stairs, straight for him. Another two shots from his six-shooter ring out loud reports as the beast crumples to the floor. Agatha Asadame. Closing his eyes and listening again, he hears nothing. Walking outside of the farmhouse, he lets out a sigh of relief, and washes some of the blood off of his trench coat, knowing it is ruined. Townsfolk have gathered now, eagerly awaiting words of assurance from this out-of-towner. “The deed is done” he announces with strength in his voice. “I am Victor Stone, and my work here, is complete.”