The half-moon is a perfect half-circle tonight, brighter than the Milky Way, which wanders across the heavens from the eastern forests down to the western horizon, where the lights of Buffalo glow an angry, ugly red.
You are a force of justice and balance. Werewolves, you know, are not balanced creatures. They are living weapons, instruments of brutal retribution, fueled by Rage. Every moment is painful for you, because every moment you are forced to think, to consider. To find the middle way between mad fury and paralyzed mystification. The struggle is endless.
But you know what to do here. You are philodox, half-moon, auspice of judgment and wisdom. You have judged the abomination below, and now you need only carry out the sentence.
The ice wind shifts and the Bane steps toward the trees, its outline breaking apart as its cloud of flies rises up. You smell the others—Clay and Scarper and Black Tarn—but they're not here yet, and the Bane might still escape into the trackless forest. But you've planned for this moment even before you shook down that dealer for information, and you've already taken on the ideal form…
Homid. I still wear my regular human shape—ideal for luring a monster into the traps I've already laid.
Glabro, the bestial near-human. I carry a bow, and this form's great strength and speed turns the archaic weapon into an instrument of swift death.
Crinos. The ultimate war-form, an incarnation of carnage and slaughter.
Hispo, the titan-wolf. So huge and powerful that I can crash through those woods and run this Bane down with my greater stamina.
Lupus, the wolf. A surprise for any Bane that expects me to use one of my supernatural forms, small enough that I'll have to dodge and weave…and lure this Bane right where I want it.
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When it's time to kill, most werewolves favor the crinos war-form: a nine foot tall walking wolf armed with huge claws and ripping teeth. But especially against a foe like this one, with a horse's speed and the threat of that long-range assault rifle, you want speed as much as you want killing power.
And since you're currently a quarter-ton prehistoric wolf with jaws the size of a cave bear's, you have plenty of killing power. You creep across the frozen field, scent the air, careful not to draw the Bane's attention where it could pick you off at range or charge you in open terrain. You've never faced a cavalry charge before—never really thought that might be a problem, actually—but that lance looks dangerous.
The rider hesitates, shifts nervously…then wheels around and hurls the lance.
He's too slow. You dodge the flying lance and charge. The Bane shows its cowardice then, fleeing into the woods between two huge pines. But you follow, leaping over fallen logs, smashing through saplings. Eyes narrowed against the cloud of flies, you feel your prey's terror as the horse gallops through the icy woods and the rider fumbles for the safety of his assault rifle, but you don't slow down even as your prey pulls out ahead. Confident that he has enough distance to make a shot, the rider wheels, aims his rifle…and doesn't have time to pull the trigger.
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