The sacrificial flames licked the cool night air with blasphemous tongues. The charred body ceased writhing a few moments after the victim’s screams ended. At first, he begged for his life, but once the altar was lit, his pleas transformed into wordless, guttural groans, then silence, then death, and now it was time for the feast.
Beside me, they threw off their cloaks—they were naked beneath, their hoary hides exposed to the moonlit sky—and I did the same. My skin, yet unblessed, was clean, childish. It was the flesh of weakness, but I would be transformed.
Some fell forward, walking on all fours. I would make no pretense. As I was, I approached the altar. There the scorched victim lay upon the embers of the fading fire. The priest, his face a shadow, plunged, headfirst, into its flesh. I could hear the slobbering of his mouth as he tore and bit and ate.
We waited for him to sate his hunger. Soon, he rose, standing up and howling at the sky. “Lycaon, Lycaon, Lycaon,” they began chanting around me, and I joined in with them. “Lycaon, Lycaon, Lycaon!” I shouted, our frenzied voices growing in the night, transforming from the voices of men into the cries of the wolf.
Madness gripped me, and I knew nothing until I awoke to the light of dawn. I looked down at my hands, hands that I recognized as mine, but now a new spirit animated them. I was one with the wolf. I had been transformed.
Tale Told 
An enjoyable tale!
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Thank you. It was fun to write.
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