Thousands of years ago, there lay a land in ancient Greece called Arcadia. It was there, in a time that gods stepped down from mount Olympus to indulge in human delights, that king Lycaon had his reign.

Intelligent as he was, the king introduced a high level of culture and civilisation to his land and ordered temples to be built –as a means of forcing his own beliefs upon the commoners, commanded them to worship Zeus as the supreme deity.

Lycaon thought himself high and mighty, an arrogantly dominant man who knew no limits; proof of this were the many different women with whom he'd sired twelve sons. These sons were considered the most wicked of all, not to be trifled with. It was known among the gods of Olympus that mortals were easily seduced by the charms of wealth and luxury. As time passed, Lycaon and his sons began to neglect their royal responsibilities and consequently, the care of their people.

Zeus learned of this change and decided to put Lycaon to the test. He travelled down from Olympus –dressed as a peasant– and knocked on the palace doors. As perceptive as he was, Lycaon figured out his visitor's true identity. He welcomed him and accommodated him generously. But blinded by his own arrogance, he committed a dire crime. With the encouragement of his eleven other sons, the king served the youngest of the brood as a roasted dish, to give the god prove of his faith and the sacrifices he was willing to make.

Zeus realised what it was that had been placed on the table and raged against his host, filled with intense wrath at the unjustified death of an innocent baby. The supreme god was known far and wide as merciless, but never without reason. As punishment, he changed King Lycaon and the rest of his sons into giant wolves. He resurrected the youngest son –now as a grown man– and named him the new king of Arcadia.

Not having foreseen the outcome of his actions, however, the almighty god had made a dreadful mistake. For the one he had brought back to life was cruel, more sinister than his predecessor had ever been. The new king sentenced his father and eleven brothers to death, planning to give them a taste of own medicine by offering their flesh to the gods. And thus, in the name of their leader, the people of Arcadia chased the wolves, futilely attempting to hunt them down.

The creatures proved to be too fast, their size and enhanced senses no fair opponent to meek humans. With luck on their side, they managed to escape the land they once called home, each of them fleeing to a different part of the world in order to keep their whereabouts a secret.

Time passed and there was no sign of the wolves –or lycanthropes, as they were now referred to. Still, their story continued to exist. Although because of the lack of sightings, it eventually faded into the books and left whispers on the tongues of many cultures.

That is, until the year 132, when a nude, unconscious stranger was found on the island of Hibernia. The creature appeared human but looked physically different from the Hibernians, the Celts that had discovered him. The main difference being his eyes, which were almond-shaped and glowing like brilliant, topaz gemstones even in daylight. His skin was rock-hard, making it impervious to dirks and arrows. He had two, almost fang-like incisors and seemed unaware of the concept of human language. All that ever escaped his mouth was the odd growl, or animalistic snarl.

In fear of the man, the Celts took him to their elder; a powerful druid, who succeeded in communicating with him through mind link –an enigma that only few knew how to decrypt.

The man, who went by the name of Maccon, told the druid of his heritage, his relation to Lycaon. And how as a testament of his regret, Zeus had gifted the lycanthropes with the ability to shift back into their human form and talk to fellow wolves with their minds.

Unlike the 'monster' that history ought them to be, the Celts discovered Maccon to have a kind heart and gentle soul. They offered him a place to settle, in exchange for his services. It was an offer he gladly accepted.

Like a regular group of wolves, lycanthropes –too– lived, slept and hunted in packs. Not only that, their predatory behaviour was typical of the common wolf, not beneath the occasional nocturnal raid on local sheep or cattle herds. However, after changing back into a man, evidence of their lupine adventure remained on their bodies. If wounded, the injury would heal gradually over time and following a successful kill, the tell-tale scarlet of blood would stain their skin.

Of the twelve original lycanthropes –each with their own pack– only six packs remained, three of which were lead by direct descendants: Maccon, Orvin and Brun. Alongside them, there were tens upon hundreds of halfbloods, quarterbloods and even relatives with less purity. Though they all had one thing in common: a dominant lycan-gene that could only be passed on to male offspring.

Maccon was the alpha of his pack, a group of nearly fifty Lycans that had been travelling around Ancient Europe in search of a safe haven, a place where the inhabitants did not chase them with torches and pitchforks. The tiresome journey had taken them from the mountains of Francia, over the Britannic Ocean, across Britannia and eventually to Hibernia –where they had shifted back to their human forms and collapsed with exhaustion. But in their moment of vulnerability, the Celts had found the unconscious Maccon whilst the other Lycans were hidden from sight.

Once the agreement between their alpha and the Celts became apparent, the members of Maccon's pack arrived to the village in large numbers. The Celts named them Faoladh, which was later translated in old English as Werewulf. Were 'adult male human' and wulf 'wolf'.

Inevitably, word got out of the half man, half wolves living with the Celts. And soon, more and more related Lycanthropes arrived. All having heard of the Utopia-like island, where their congeners were treated similarly to guardian angels, and not the monsters they had been deemed as for hundreds of years.

Considering Maccon had claimed Hibernia as his territory, the new arrivals had two choices: leave and remain in their own pack or stay and join Maccon's. The majority chose the latter, and so the pack grew until eventually, an assembly of hundreds of Lycanthropes had been formed.

The collaboration between the Celts and their protectors made them untouchable to those who meant ill. And in times of war, the Lycans were recruited by the Hibernian kings.

In spite of their never-ending triumph, glory and inexplicable abilities, there was one concept they did not know the true meaning of: the universal language of love.

Only the strongest of women could bear their children. Yet, they were unable to make them fall in love, for it was against a Lycan's nature to do so. That is, until the powerful druid presented them with the greatest gift of all; a soulbond.

It was defined as a spiritual marriage of souls. The perfect match of a female human and a Lycanthrope, chosen by fate. In order to make finding ones soulmate easier, they were attracted to one another by smell and appearance, lured in like a moth to a flame. Once they had found their other half, their heart strings would connect and establish the match.

To complete the bond, the Lycan would have to claim their mate by sinking their wolf's canines into the crease between ones neck and shoulder. Lastly, the couple would have to unite in the most intimate of ways. After finishing this stage, they would be able to sense the other's presence and emotions; feel each other's pain and ultimately, die whenever their significant other did. Simultaneously.

Still, there was no guarantee the human mate would survive child birth.

At that point, Maccon had been crowned the King of Lycanthropes –the rare, completely obsidian shade of his fur distinguishing him from the rest. But unlike his wolf brothers, he did not care for the concept of love, he cared about his pack and that alone. And so, the druid presented him with a separate gift: a child bearer.

A woman who could bear the strongest of Lycan-children without complications, to ensure the royal bloodline would never cease to exist. Similar to the soulbond female, the child bearer –too– would be chosen by fate. And was recognisable by the startling, violet shade of her eyes.

For generations, they lived in harmony alongside the Celts. The soulbond mates, as well as the child bearers a grand success. Although, Maccon's descendants came to discover the druid had not been completely truthful with their ancestor, for the royal heirs were able to love; both their parents but mother in particular. The love they had for their mother was unconditional, and pushed them to go through great heights to protect her.

Their lives were peaceful, until a terrible war between the Celts of Hibernia and the powerful Roman occupiers of Britannia broke out. The era of torches, pitchforks and misery had returned and the Lycanthropes were once again, forced to flee.

Over the centuries, there had been stories of Lycanthropes from communities all over the world. And yet, up to the present day, nobody knows their whereabouts; whether they have gone extinct or have managed to blend in with human crowds.