Writing Group: Hour of the Wolf (PRIVATE)

Hello, Packhunters, Watchmakers and Arcadians!

Do you hear that? The children of the night, what—! Oh no…We should really be getting home. No, I’m serious! I’m not afraid of witches! Something much worse comes out at this time, because…

This week’s Writing Group prompt is:

Hour of the Wolf

Make sure you scroll down and read them if you haven’t! You may not be eligible if you don’t!

You’ve likely heard of the “Witching Hour,” a time between 3:00 and 4:00am when witches and demons are said to be at their most powerful. Now it’s time to give wolves their time in the…moon. 

Ingmar Bergman, a Swedish filmmaker who made a film called “Hour of the Wolf” said “The hour between night and dawn … when most people die, sleep is deepest, nightmares are most real. It is the hour when the sleepless are haunted by their worst anguish, when ghosts and demons are most powerful.”

You could write a story like Bergman’s in which there is truly said to be an “hour of the wolf” when horrible things happen. You could use the Witching Hour for this prompt, but use wolves as the vehicle for evil, and/or supernatural activity, rather than witches or demons. 

Or maybe the “hour of the wolf” isn’t a specific hour. Maybe the word “hour” is a synecdoche for the night as a whole, or a year, or even a decade. Maybe the kingdom in your story has faced years of unrest, and they refer to it in this way. Maybe future generations refer to the time period in which a beast plagued their town like this. 

You could, of course, use this prompt to write about werewolves. The “hour of the wolf” can easily refer to the time someone turns into a werewolf. Your character could wall themselves away, shivering in the corner, fearing the hour of change. Or your character could breathe in the moonlit night air, reveling in the idea of running free and wild as a wolf. You could write a story about a village that has been plagued by (were)wolf attacks each week, or every night, and they board up their windows in anticipation of the hour. 

Or perhaps, in your universe the “hour of the wolf” isn’t an evil time at all. In Greek mythology wolves were associated with Apollo. Wolves are often portrayed as agents of darkness, it seems odd for them to be associated with the god of healing and light. The Jungle Book has been praised by wolf biologists for being accurate to wolves’ less villainous, and more familial nature. Perhaps you could explore these angles. Maybe people look forward to the “hour of the wolf” as a time of blessing, not curse. Maybe in your story the “hour of the wolf” is simply when a wolf pack has dinner together. 

“The hour of the wolf” has a very fairy-tale feeling to it. My challenge for you this week is to find a myth, fairy tale, or fable about wolves, and use it somehow in your story. You could make your story a retelling of the myth, or you could simply reference it, just some sort of connection. (But be sure to incorporate the hour aspect, even if it’s not present in the original!) 

It’s too late now. I hear the music…and I’m ready to join their song. 

—Paul, Pearce and Kaylie

Remember, this is part of our weekly Writing Group stream! Submit a little piece following the rules and guidelines below, and there’s a chance your entry will be read live on stream! In addition, we’ll discuss it for a minute and give you some feedback.

Tune into the stream this Saturday at 3:00pm CST to see if you made the cut!

The whole purpose of this is to show off the creativity of the community, while also helping each other to become better writers. Lean into that spirit! Get ready not just to share what you’ve got, but to give back to the other writers here as well.

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We read at least five stories during each stream, two of which come from the public post, and three of which come from the much smaller private post. Submissions are randomly selected by a bot, but likes on your post will improve your chances of selection, so be sure to share your submission on social media!

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Lee Strangely
Lee Strangely
6 months ago

Cause Fur Concern (Amory)
by Lee Strangely

Swaying round and round he thrashed, kicked, and hissed at the darkness. The net cried and the tree moaned under his weight. As the ropes began twisting him around again, a light suddenly sputtered into existence mere feet from his red eyes.

Amory stood in front of the large man, her crooked little wand faintly lighting the space between them.

“Release me, and your death will be swift,” he growled, “I’m not a man to be trifled with.”

She looked him up and down, “Well, you’re not wrong…”

“People will come looking for me. They’ll help me….”

“No, people will help other people,” she attested, “not animals…”

In a fit of rage, he swiped at her, hard. Suddenly he felt as if his arm was being pulled hard, with his hand forced to remain in the air outstretched.

Amory continued as she slowly twirled her wand, encircling his arm, “…and especially not ones that lie.” As she focused on it, his hand gently shifted in appearance. The shape shrank and condensed. Hair seemed to overtake every surface. Sharp, bony blades began to jut from the fingertips. “Lucky for you, I have use for a Werewolf.”

Werewolf: a wolfen term, usually referring to sorcerers within their kind. Wolves with magic have been known to disguise themselves as people. Despite what many may think, many creatures, including wolves, are entirely capable of using magic. However, most animals don’t make heavy use of it like humans do, despite being among the first to figure it out. Contrary to popular belief, humans weren’t the first to learn, but were in fact the very last; just barely losing the race to insects, fish, and certain rocks…

“I’m sorry I had to do this to you,” she tried to explain, “but your kind tend to be quite hard to find in these parts.”

“Let me go witch!” the Werewolf barked as his hand eventually released and retracted back into the net.

Amory pointed her wand at him. He snarled, baring his yellowed fangs.

To this, Amory then growled back.

6 months ago

Raid on the Wolf’s Den
By MasaCur

Zydrunas was alerted by the beeping on his wall. The warehouse had been breached.

He clicked the button for the intercom. “Hey, whoever you are, just so you know, I’ve got an arsenal in here. Your best bet is to just leave now, and forget all about this place.”

“Hey, Zydrunas! We just want to talk.”

Andre. One of Rikke’s enforcers. She must have figured out Zydrunas had sold equipment to Ridgecloud and sent Andre to exact payback.

“I can hear you just fine from here, Andre.”

“Sonja Jarlsdottir’s people hit Rikke’s car last night, and managed to abduct her. We know you sold them gear to help them do it.”

They managed to get Rikke. Good for Sonja.

“Don’t know anything about that. I just sell arms, fix deals. If you want me to put you in contact with Sonja’s people, I can make that happen, but not while you’re here. So you might as well shove off, Andre.”

There were a few moments as Andre thought how to respond. Enough time for Zydrunas to find him on surveillance cameras. And two of the hit team he brought.

“Zydrunas, I thought you would be smarter than that.” Andre called back. He raised a hand to his mouth and said something Zydrunas couldn’t hear, but he could see the others moving toward his office.

Zydrunas grabbed the assault rifle by his desk and poked the barrel out of one of the firing ports. He let off a double-tap at one of Andre’s operatives.

Nothing happened.

They must have magic.

Zydrunas had that suspicion confirmed when the operative swung his arms around, and a gout of flame flew his way. Zydrunas pulled the rifle back and ducked down.

Well, if that’s the way they wanted to play it, that would be fine.

Zydrunas stripped off his clothes, grey fur emerging from his limbs already as he did so.

There was a knock at the office door, and it swung open. The operative poked his head around the corner.

The great grey wolf pounced on top of him with a snarl.

6 months ago

The Devil Behind the Disguise (A Song for: Kit)
by Lunabear

The sun scorched Kit.

Sharine’s shirt provided some relief. “Hang on.” He lifted her.

Warmth became coolness in an instant.

“I’ll take care–” He grunted as they were thrown backwards.

Kit screamed.

“This is my suite, so why–”

“In…vite…me…in.” Every word pierced her lungs.

“Please come in, Nikita.” Sharine sighed when they entered.

She was placed on something soft. Sharine’s shirt disappeared. Arms wrapped around her.

He licked her injury closed.

Kit almost laughed.

Blood perfumed the air.

Crimson filled her vision. She locked onto Sharine’s neck.

“Drink, Nikita.”

She’d never murdered anyone. “What…if…”

“I trust you.” Sharine pulled her nearer.

Without recourse, she bit him. She held onto him and suckled with necessary greed.

He dropped back, his pulse slowing.


He smiled. “I just need sustenance. Animals help, but humans are best. Yo-you decide.”

“I’ll be back.” She navigated outside. Humans were nearby, but she killed a stag. Carrying it was cumbersome.

Time was crucial.

Gentle words came to her in an unrecognizable language.

Without knowing how, she’d returned.

He was ragged, sweaty.

Kit abandoned the corpse and went to him.

He gripped her wrist and lifted black, feral eyes. Fangs extended to his chin. Elongated claws scored her skin as he pulled her closer. He sniffed her, jaw widening.


Clarity flickered. He released her and slid to the floor.

Kit watched Sharine crawl to the deer.

Catching her staring, he growled with ferocity.

“I’m not leaving,” she insisted, ignoring her instincts.

Sharine stripped meat from bone.

Kit was immobile, keeping her distance.

He howled suddenly and fell backwards. Facing away from Kit, he huddled into a ball. Groans and crackling sounded then ceased.

He sat and pushed normal fingers through his hair. “I hated you seeing that, Nikita.”

“What…ARE you?” She was an arm’s length away.

He let out a blithe chuckle. “Some have called me abomination, demon. Angel. However, I like to think of myself as…” He turned his head, a large, bloodied grin pulling at his lips. Gold dominated, but teal and black swirled at the edges of his eyes. “The big, bad wolf.”

Last edited 6 months ago by Lunabear
6 months ago

Sons of the She-Wolf
By Connor/Dragoneye

“You’ve got a lead?” asked Ullr.

Einar knelt down to inspect the fresh footprint in the snow. The compressed layers were fairly new, given that the sole’s indents were shapely and clear, even under a semi-luminous cloudy sky.

“They’re near, about an hour away.”

“Then let’s get them!” Kraki grinned with malice, brandishing his blade.

Einar barked, “Not so fast, stonebrain. We need to take a moment and plan this out.”

The coterie of warriors following them remained out of sight, hidden by the few patches of woods that remained in the southern plains. A host of clan warriors could be anywhere, hiding in the snow or waiting to fire arrows indiscriminately into the open field.

Ullr scanned his brothers’ surroundings. “Let’s regroup to a more safe position.”

Trudging over the thick layers of snow was quite the hassle, but nothing that they weren’t prepared for. Einar made sure that they had as much intel on the terrain and the clans’ tactics, skulking through the wilds unbothered by others. Thank the gods for that magic wolf’s pelt, or else he would have been spotted from miles away.

When the brothers regrouped with their forces, they stopped and rested under the cover of a dense patch of trees. Ullr tended to the rations, Kraki made sure that their blades were ready to draw blood, and Einar listened to the earth. Its voice sang to him the knowledge he wished to know, where those tracks led to. They stretched towards a mead hall, a raven sang to him, perched on its roof. He sang back under his breath, asking what was occurring inside. A jarlman’s dog yelped the word “feast” to him, and from its eyes he saw the drunken revelry of a clan hall, with horns full of mead and plates full of meat.

Ullr approached Einar, who laid on the ground, his ear pressed to the ground. “What do you hear?”

“A hall. It’s full, and they’re celebrating.” Einar then looked up to his brother, confidence in his eyes. “We strike tonight.”

6 months ago

Blades in the Sand(Illusions of Heroes)
by Gerrit (Rattus)

Rhiza pulled her scarf up over her mouth to protect her face from the sandy winds. She laid prone, watching the encampment before them, the rest of the Dunewolves spread out around her. The wind was beginning to pick up now, which meant it wouldn’t be much longer.

“Captain, we just finished checking our supplies.” Tarq had crawled up beside her, careful not to move too quickly and attract attention. “Once the sandstorm picks up, we can move in.”

“Tell the Stoneshots to have some blast runes prepared. With their lack of visibility from the storm, that should be enough to completely disorient them.” Rhiza adjusted her goggles to make sure they were tight. The last thing she would need was sand getting in her eyes in the heat of battle.

Tarq nodded in understanding before moving off to relay the message. The winds were slowly getting stronger, picking up more and more of the sand as they rolled across the dunes. In the distance, their targets double checked the tether ropes on their tents, ensuring they’d be fastened well enough to withstand the gusts.

In a matter of minutes, the storm had become strong enough that Rhiza could hardly see the encampment before them. She rose to a crouch, signalling the rest of the Dunewolves to follow behind her. Despite the sandstorm concealing them, she knew better than to get too self-assured.

A single motion of her hand, and the Stoneshots set about to the initial assault. Clay balls were launched from slings, each one inscribed with a burst rune. The moment the clay broke against the ground, the runes sent out a blast of energy, shooting fragments in every direction. The sudden explosions sent a wave of panic through the camp, some of the clay shards lacerating enemies who were unlucky enough to have been standing close.

Chaos now thoroughly spread throughout their opponents, Rhiza drew her blade and charged, her pack following close on her heels. They had been denied a good fight for too long, but tonight their hunger would be sated.

6 months ago

The Hunt
By RVMPLSTLTSKN (Saga of The Deep One’s Wake)

Two old men walked through unfamiliar terrain, tracking a god. It was, they suspected, a wolf or canine spirit. Something left over or something new. The beliefs of animals in an apex predator turned into the human equivalent idea.

Padas followed, though only he could see the tracks the god-thing left. Krao, an interloper, walked ahead boldly, the totems on his neck clacking, the staff in his hand a red wood unseen on these shores. Outheld, a crystal spun on a string and guided him.

“Are you ready?” Krao asked. “I don’t know that I can help you in this.”

“It’s just like a dog, right?” Padas asked, his memories of the feral beasts unpleasant. He felt vulnerable without Karas’s fiery sword to drive the godthing away, but his children needed the blade more.

“Some nasty dogs you have here. Maybe. But I think it will be more like you.”

Padas knew what he meant. Dead, but not. Alive, but not. Human, but not. He felt like so much less than he had before, as though ascension diminished him. His touch had been restored, his missing finger returned, but tactile things gave him less sensation, less pleasure. He could see things which weren’t there before. The scars on the land from gods battling, the soulstuff in each pearl he somehow missed over the years, the tracks of a thing like him. A wolf, but not.

“How do I kill it?” He asked, breaking himself from reverie.

“Can a god be killed?”


“Then you know more than I do, Father. Perhaps that is in your nature.”

“And the wolf’s nature?”

Krao chuckled. “Is to be cunning and hunt. That’s why I’ve let it circle us for the last hour. We needed a place where it could only come where we knew it would. Perhaps there are aspects of yourself you have not found yet. Be strong and kill. It’s coming.”

Padas turned where Krao pointed and saw, beneath the shadowy form it hid in, a snarl of mouths and eyes. The wolfen god was a pack and it was here.

6 months ago

Estuans Interius, Ira Vehementi
By Marx

Yelena was a warrior angel. She existed for battle. She didn’t know if these were the demons who tore off her wing, but they would get her vengeance regardless.

But with every strike of her divine blade, she was forced to acknowledge how much weaker she was in this wounded state, her power effectively halved.

Angels were meant to be beings of perfection. She was no longer perfect. And it was THEIR fault.

The demons made up for their weakness in numbers and viciousness. Yelena made up for hers in skill.

Even still, Yelena quickly realized that even if these weren’t the same demons who crippled her, they had the same strategy. On the plus side, she knew they would keep going for her remaining wing and could compensate. But with every brutal attempt, a jolt of sheer terror went through her.

Her eyes welled up as she took in the rows and rows of teeth before her. Each one sharp enough to sever an angel’s soul from their body if given enough time. She couldn’t stop the thoughts from entering her head.

She couldn’t go home like this.

She was useless to Heaven.

She was practically a fallen angel at this point.

She had nowhere else to go.

It was like the demons fed on her failing resolve, renewing their attack as nothing more than predators who acknowledged a weakened prey.

Yelena continued to fight back, but her heart wasn’t in it. What good is vengeance if there’s nothing left to live for afterwards?

Yelena’s vision was so blurry in her tears, she hadn’t realized that the demons had scattered. For even predators run from bigger predators.

And the being who loomed over the weeping angel was one of the biggest. His eyes narrowed at her. “That… was stupid. Were you trying to die?”

“…yes.” Yelena sobbed, breaking down entirely. He was a demon as well. He should have been her enemy and yet this was the second time he’d saved her from them.

He sighed deeply, scooping the angel in his arms and taking her home.

Dagmar Makara (dystop)
Dagmar Makara (dystop)
6 months ago

This Means War
by Dagmar Makara

An uncertain wind wheezed through the cracks of the windows in the old Apache library. The air was heady, as ancient dust danced around the moonbeams. The wood-rotten oak shelves stared back at Goyen and Elan, almost sentient to their intentions. A wolf’s invocation means war, and war requires the spirit of the wolf.

Elan was a small woman, inquisitive and tenacious. She ran her fingertips across the forgotten tomes, clicking her tongue rhythmically as she searched for the infamous Lupan texts. Goyen watched her little tactile serenade, his face already painted for the conflict ahead. Although she was like family, he couldn’t fathom why she seemed so nonchalant. Her face did not have the paint of the wolf. This was strange to Goyen, but he trusted her implicitly.

Elan paused.

“You know why we lost last time?”, she remarked with a smirk.

“Bad luck”, Goyen replied.

“Ha, no… that’s not right, my friend. Half our people were gutted and splayed because we only took half-measures. We didn’t seek out the tomes, totems– and nor did we prepare at the hour of the wolf”.

Goyen appeared angry for a flash. But knowing Elan’s brilliance and creativity, he instead decided to hear her out. After all, she was right, the latest massacre was the worst so far. He couldn’t get the image of the huddled brothers… or what remained of their bloodied torsos from his head. This would be their fate should they not prevail this time. Extinction.

As Goyen turned to sorrow, Elan let out a howl of excitement.

“Got the damned thing! I knew it would be here somewhere!”, said Elan.

Goyen interrupted, irked.

“Elan, our tribe, our decimation is on the line. Do you really think an old tome can win this war?”

Elan smirked once more, this time with a full smile.

“Goyen my friend, no knives, no daggers, no flintlock can challenge the wolf. The wolf is war, and oh boy are we at the hour of the wolf. There will be a tomorrow for us. As for the invaders… not so much”, she cheekily grinned.

6 months ago


I watch as the sun sets, smiling. “You guys up for a movie?” I ask everyone.

“I’m down,” Mike replies.

“I’m choosing!” Riley says, vaulting the couch and running inside.

“In a minute,” Sam tells me. “I want to watch the moon rise first.”

“Cool with me,” I say, not realizing that it sounds just a little too loud.

As the tip of the moon peaks over the horizon, I start to sense more and more smells. Everything from Mike’s aftershave to the stray cat four blocks down. I’ve got a strange urge to chase it.

“Woah, you okay?” Riley asks, looking at me. “You don’t look so good.”

“There’s no need to yell,” I tell him as I scratch my arm. My leg, my back.

“I didn’t yell,” He says as all colour drains from his face and the face of everyone else.

“I’m SO ITCHY!” I howl.

And as I do, I notice the moon. The full moon.

“It’s a full moon out?” I bark. That’s not good. Not good at all.

“You guys might want to back up,” I say, straining to keep my voice from growling.

Here it comes.

I scream in pain as thick hair sprouts from every possible place in my body. My nose elongates, and I grow a dozen more teeth than I should have. Canines.

Even though I’m in immense pain, I still can’t help but laugh at that.

My back hunches as my legs and arms reverse themselves. My ears crawl up my head, slowly changing to be pointier and floppy. My eyes adjust to my new vision, letting me recognize the grays and blacks of everything I see.

I turn to my friends, smiling. “So, how about that movie?” I bark.

6 months ago

Moon-Related Problems Require Archmage-Level Solutions (Students of the DiamondBridge Academy universe)
by Carrie (Glaceon373)

Amadea Kerberos stumbled into the University two hours late, gray hair disheveled and reeking with a million bad smells.

Both his students and his fellow professors pointed and mocked him behind his back. They didn’t think he noticed. But his werewolf ears caught every word.

“Looks like the night really messed him up.”

“Can’t believe he showed up at all, to be honest.”

“Can’t believe they let someone teach here who can’t handle a full moon, right?”

There was the occasional sympathetic glance and kind word mixed with the mocking. Some were from fellow werewolves–in much cleaner states than himself–and some were kinder strangers than the rest. It didn’t make him feel any better.

Amadea hadn’t lived through seventy years of full moons to not have his class schedule planned around the things. Today was his day for independent research, and he had plans for it.

Lots of plans.

With lazy flicks of his wand, he opened door after door, making his way to his observatory.

“Deimos!” Amadea called as he entered the observatory. “Are you here?”

“Ah!” Deimos, who had been sitting in a chair reading a book, jumped to her feet. “You came into work today? I barely got out of bed—”

“Yes! And I’ve decided that we won’t have to make that decision any longer!”

“… What?”

Amadea grabbed three spellbooks and a few scrolls from a shelf. “We’re moving the moon. Effective immediately. Full moons will be on Saturday nights, and Saturday nights only. Perfectly 28-day moon cycles, with no moon hangovers on work days.” He went back to the shelf, grabbing and throwing things behind him.

“I—we’re MOVING the MOON?!”

“Yes! I am FINISHED with it ruining my life! And I’m Archmage Amadea Kerberos! So I’m DOING something about it! Now find the books on runes, we’re getting this done as soon as possible.”

Deimos gulped worriedly. “If you say so, sir…”