[SamwiseGamgee]

Oh my goodness! It's wargs like this sick son of a monster that give the whole noble race of wargs a bad name! This kind of brutal two-faced nature leads to the tar-brushing of wargs as a race. If I ever get to meet this 'Wargy' I'll give him a piece of my mind...before being brutally ravished and left for dead, I imagine.
For long years have wargs struggled with the quick judgement of men and the devilry of one or two individuals in their race. Take, for example, Boris. Boris was a Transylvanian warg of the short haired variety who lived for years in an old castle overlooking the village of Schmertkin. He held that little village his own, and the villagers loved him. He was kind, loving, and cared for the children. Little did the inhabitants on Schmertkin realise that by night Boris would sneak into the village and steal a baby, to use for his own filthy purposes. The child would then mysteriously reappear at a later date in its own bed, apparently none the worse.
Boris worked his foul web of deceit for years, until one day he made a mistake- he chose a victim who was old enough to be aware of what was happening. When that child got home he told his parents of the abhorrent acts of Boris, though they would not suffer their son's tales, and he was exiled to the barren lands surrounding Schmertkin.
It was there that the boy met another warg- Albus. Albus was the older brother of Boris and knew that the child spake the truth. He knew that the villagers must be shown the truth and so he tricked them into following him- disguised as Boris- into the castle. Albus then disappeared, allowing the young lad to lead the villagers to the dungeon where there were no less than three babies, chained and bound to the wall. When Boris burst in the villagers were in a blind rage, realising the story of the boy to be the truth, and they did attack Boris with pitchforks and scythes so that the fell beast was overcome and there, in his own dungeon of disrepute, he drew his last breath. At that Albus entered, coming to congratulate the villagers and thank them for destroying this open sore upon the fair visage of Schmertkin. The villagers, however, had already made their minds up about wargs, and so they did pounce upon Albus with great fury and vengeance, ripping out his eyes and setting his head upon a stick.
The young lad saw this and was filled with sorrow, asking of the villagers: 'Do you not realise this was your saviour, and my friend?' The mob was incited, and as they turned on the lad they did say: 'Don't you hear him? He's in cahoots with these creatures of oblivion. We shall send him to the abyss with his fell companions!' And so the crowd attacked the boy, setting a slipknot around his neck and hanging him from the highest point of the castle.
Shortly after this the black death gripped all of Transylvania in its icy fist. In that fell winter of 1864 every last son and daughter of Schmertkin died, and the village is now nought but a memory, and the castle has gone to ruin. A lesson, surely, to those who would quickly judge an entire race upon the acts of one mad creature.