[retelling of a story, starting confident then slowly breaking down emotionally] The Loup Garou was here before the cabins, before the church, before the mines dug in the mountain. They say it kept the balance, drove away the things that crept down from the peaks in winter, the ones that stole into homes and took children from their beds. It asked for little in return. Food left at the edge of the forest, fires lit on certain nights, songs sung in the old tongue so it would know it was still welcome. For years, we lived without fear. Crops grew, winters were kinder, and we were safe. But the people forgot, or maybe they stopped caring.

[mourning and scared] The Loup Garou bled for us, and we repaid it with silver and flame. The last time I saw it up close, it wasn’t in rage. It was in grief. It stood at the tree line, not crossing into the light of the village, watching us like strangers. I swear I saw its eyes shining from tears, reflecting the fire we lit to drive it away. It turned and vanished into the dark, and the mountain felt different after that.

[forceful] Don't pity it.