The moon shifted places in the sky, Fangs loooked up with his lip quivering under his helm. It was dark out, of course, but under the light of the full moon the world below shivered under it’s snowy light. Fangs let go of his sword handle and dropped his sheath, he grabbed his chest and bent over, coughing up blood as the wind billowed his cape, distorting his form from behind. His bones cracked loudly and his organs shifted inside his body. Despritely he grabbed at his face, trying to remove his helmet. Gasping and choking, he knew if the helmet didn’t come off he would die from suffocation—he couldn’t fully shift under a metal helm, and he didn’t have a choice BUT to shift tonight.

Finally, the helmet popped off and a white, silvery mane fell out. Several large claw-mark scars were worn over a closed eye and he roared, his one good eye glowing a pale blue. Large canine teeth shaped into his forming muzzle, and a tail pushed out his spine. Growing several feet in size, Fangs became a werewolf. . .