A chance encounter with a werewolf while returning home from a hunt is a tragedy not unknown to those who brave the wilds alone in pursuit of game and furs. There has been a noticeable spike in the number of such reports in recent years: monsters which propagate their kind in similar manners usually do cause a compounding population boom where they tread.
Borys was doubly unlucky. When he realized what he had become, he fled his home in Numeria to protect his small village from his lunar rages. Wandering the Narlmarches in despair, he avoided contact with the bandits and hunters only to happen upon Olienne’s clearing while he was deep in the throes of a rampage. As he languished there, he lashed out in agonized anger, clawing and snapping at the nearest thing — her tree. She did not take kindly to this treatment and bestowed upon him a dreadful curse, deepening the state of his affliction.
He lost what meager semblance of control he had labored so hard in practice to gain, and collapsed completely into a feral beast of ravenous instinct. From then on, the Veiled Turnings were the only nights he could recover a shred of his senses, spending almost all his time in a bestial psychosis.
He only vaguely remembers the experience of that … thing squirming out of him, mostly just a nightmarish montage of agony and fear.
With the additional curse lifted, he has gained a semblance of self-control over his lycanthrope. Though his transformational rages are still unsettling to him, he has arranged to be safely secluded when the full face of Theshamine rises.