The varghulf is what waits beneath a vampire's manners. Some of the undead aristocracy fall to it slowly — starved of blood too long, or drunk too deep on it, or broken by defeat and shame — until the courtly mask sloughs away and the body follows, swelling into a monstrous thing of membrane, muscle, and hunger. A varghulf keeps nothing of its old life but appetite. It lopes ahead of the Counts' armies to slaughter pickets, shatter gates, and empty villages, and it must be aimed rather than commanded.
Among the bloodlines the varghulf is spoken of carefully, when it is spoken of at all, because every count recognizes it. It is not a different creature from the elegant lords of Drakenhof; it is the same creature, being honest. Some vampires destroy their fallen kin out of fastidious horror. The wiser ones keep them, as a great house keeps its hounds — and as a reminder of exactly how thin the difference between a throne room and a feeding ground has always been.
Order of battle
