This is where the werewolves are, here among the jagged hills beneath the roaring sky. They look like sheep - it's their disguise - in tatty overcoats and while they chew the shrivelled grass they eye the passer-by who knows that should the sun go down while yet he's in their midst, their eyes will glow as burning coals and up they'll rear, their fangs all white and claws as sharp as knives.
Should he be there when in the sky a spectral moon hangs full and round, he'll hear their rustling all around, their giant jaws dripping foam upon the stone-strewn ground.
Should he have lingered in these hills, perhaps exhausted from his march and quite unable now to find that roof, those walls and that fire where safe he might have slept, the werewolves which surround him now dressed like tattered sheep will rush upon him from all sides, and he, like they, will never leave these jagged hills beneath a roaring sky.
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