The night’s were often harder for Max. He was still well aware of the stigma that Worgen carry, wild animals with no humanity left in them. Feral and dangerous. He often found himself far from civilization, not because he feared people. He did not want to hurt anyone.
The worst times were when the Moon was full. The sight of Elune’s beautiful face would send him into a frenzy. Howling and slavering in a state of mind that knew no mercy. Every living thing in his path would flee or die. Not just rabbits and squirrels either. He was strong and lethal, slipping through the forest at a speed that allowed him to run down most. In the time it took for the Moon to go from horizon to horizon, he would lay waste all who could not flee from his long fangs and bloody claws.
During the day, he could relax, and life was a boring normal routine he followed with an almost fanatical dedication. He gathered flowers and ground them into pigments to make ink. Then with a steady hand and a gift for beautiful calligraphy, he made scrolls of magic. He never kept them very long, as those who bought his scrolls came back time and time again.
The work was a steady influence for him and he found it easy to forget the time of the month. If he was not reminded of it by some innocent comment made by one of his customers, it was certain he would not remember the risk of staying in town when the Moon showed her full face to the night. Finally he decided to make calendars, putting them up in his workshop and marking days off as he went about his daily routine. To his surprise, the calendars sold well and he found himself making them month by month and offering them at a special discount to those who bought his scrolls as well.
A few days from the Full Moon phase, he would close up shop and hang up a sign that simply read, “Gone to gather herbs for ink”. Then he would be off, seeking the deepest part of the forests to gather herbs until the night of the Full Moon. Often it took him a few days to gather all the herbs he needed. The time away from his shop in Stormwind made it safer for the citizens. But sooner or later, he would find himself too close to civilization. He prayed to all the Gods, he would not be caught. They would surely kill him if he ended up hurting one of the innocent citizens in Stormwind, or even the outlying communities. Self preservation is the strongest of all the instincts.
Some time right after his moving to Stormwind, he began increasing his magic training, and found the power it gave him almost intoxicating. Even as he sought more power, in the back of his mind it was for his own survival he did this. When he began seeking the knowledge of the warlocks, they hushed his curious questions and took him aside. If he wished their knowledge, he would need to become one of them.
It was not an easy decision to make. Demons were terrible creatures. They lied, they took delight in torture and they were not easy to subdue in the first place. But once tamed they were loyal companions. After much deliberation and a promise from the Masters, to help him through the training, Max made the worst decision he had ever made in his life.
The day he walked into the coven in the basement of the Slaughtered Lamb, was the day that changed his life forever. He learned many things over the course of a month, taking time to leave them with the excuse he needed to practice. The Masters warned him if he left their training incomplete, he would be unable to handle the demons he summoned. He assured them he would return, he only needed to gather more herbs to keep his business solvent. They taught him how to summon an Imp as a permanent companion, and reluctantly agreed.
Little was Maxwell to know, that the Imp would be his savior and his confidant, and also his doom. Fog’arel learned very quickly how to manipulate this naive wolfman. The Imp loved it when the Moon turned full and the Master became a vicious predator, slaughtering all in his path. Bathing in the blood shed and encouraging his Master to go after larger game. Of course, at first the ravaging wolf did not understand the tiny Imp who followed after him and even attempted to kill it. To his great frustration, the Imp proved impossible to catch.
After three days of howling at the Moon at night and picking herbs during the day, an exhausted Maxwell returned to the Slaughtered Lamb to renew his studies. To his utter chagrin, the tiny Imp bragged to all who would listen about how ruthless and deadly his Master had become. Max protested vehemently. “I am no monster! I kill to survive!”
His protests were largely ignored, as was the Imp’s bragging. Maz was relieved that they seemed to pay it no mind. Imp’s were notorious for bragging, and every warlock fought to survive. It was so common that none questioned it. For some reason, this bothered Max a lot. Perhaps it had been a mistake to do this…
“You have managed to increase your skills immensely, Maxwell. If you continue in this field of study, surely you will master it with much success. I congratulate you on so thoroughly taming your Imp it brags about you. Be aware, however, all demons will lie to you and to anyone else. They take great delight in scheming for the upper hand. You must always be aware of their words and take them with a grain of salt. Lest they turn the tables on you and you become their slave.” Master Hannwell was stern even as he praised Maxwell.
“I will keep that in mind, Master Hannwell. I must get back to my shop and work on my scrolls, I have neglected it too long and I don’t want to lose customers.” Max replied. He was afraid if the Masters knew of his dire transformation and difficulty controlling it, they would stop training him. After all, what could be worse than a rampant direwolf rampaging the countryside? A warlock who could store his soul in a phylactory and never die? The very thought of it made Max question his own sanity. But it was his plan, and it was the only way he thought he could survive.