You want a pre-treaty story? Fine...let me tell you one of my favorites.
All right, this was back in the bad old days before the treaties were ever thought of. Werewolves were a law unto themselves. If you were smart, and human, you gave us tribute once a month and left us the fuck alone, and we didn't touch you. Worked well for both sides, right?
Well, this one group didn't think so. God-buggerers, every one of them, called themselves the Flame of God, vowed to cleanse the forest of all the evils that infested it. And by cleansing it, they meant burn it to the fucking ground. Great believers in the cleansing nature of flame, they were. Well, quite a few people were upset by that. Dryads, the fae, even a few fucking pointy-ears were in on this.
So one night, dead of night, not a soul awake, we all descend on this little hamlet where they made their base. Anyone who kept to the old ways, iron horseshoes on the door, a saucer of milk for the fairies, a sprig of wolfsbane to let us know they paid tribute, they were left alone. Anyone who flew a Flame flag, or tried to attack us, got dragged off. Not killed, that was too good for them.
Once we got back, we divided our captives, maybe thirty guys all in all. We split it so many ways, the pack only got three. Those three we turned, and dragged to the most ass-backwards, remote part of the forest for their First Change. Two of them killed each other before the night was through. One...decided that maybe burning everything evil wasn't such a good thing now that he was 'evil' and joined us. From what I hear...those three got it easy compared to their friends. Apparently, the fae decided to teach them the hard way why you don't fuck with the forest, ever.
Of course, all that is in the past now. I don't eat people or turn them, and paladins don't fuck with me or my pack. It all works out so much better, and if things are boring now, eh, I'm an old graymane anyway. Not my world anymore.