Dear readers, please know in advance this decadent historical fantasy does NOT contain werewolves, though it has plenty of other horrors... such as scenes of sadistic violence, borderline noncon sex, erotic degradation, and evil stunts that really really shouldn't be tried in real life. So if you prefer sweet stories, please buy How To Seduce a Straight Guy instead!
As for a werewolf tale, well, maybe one day, once I dig up the right records of course :-)
A note on terminology — the word faggot is ahistorical, but it still has the right tone of forbidden disgrace, so I used it in this, my somewhat free translation of the recovered manuscript.
When he woke up the carriage was still rattling along the winter road and the sky was red with sunset. His hands were still bound behind him and his tight trouser-legs still burned and stank from yesterday's dried piss. Travics had not pissed since then — not since he hadn't needed to, but simply because his body had gone too dry for it. His tongue was a block of dry leather in his mouth and his lips were sealed together with a glue of blood.
He drifted, half-conscious, as unseen horses stamped and whined and shook their buckles and bare trees shook in the snow-wind like the fingers of scorched skeletons.
A shape passed the barred window of the carriage. Fog in the cold mist? No, there it was again — he stirred from his slumber, rising with effort to a trembling squat that hurt to hold for more than a second.
A second was enough time to see the country house, framed through two sets of bars: the bars on the carriage window, then the bars on the tall iron fence. Then snow-drifting wind cut the scene apart into gauze fragments and he sat down.