He had been expecting it, honestly. The man had been expecting the anonymously scouted Werewolf cavern to be...stank, but this was a bit above what he had previously assumed. A figure stood in the dark of the forest, dark blue - or were they black, eyes narrowed as he peered into the lip of a shady, unassuming cave. On the cave's entrance, deep claw marks grazed along the rock, apparently by razor-sharp wolf nails, but this wasn't what made him pause.

 No...it was the pure amount of stink that came out of the cave. It smelled...like wet, furry dog, a dog that had been decomposing in the desert sun for the past few months, without disintegrating. There was also the smell of shit, piss, and blood, but the blood seemed fresh, while the other scents were stale. Stale, but still there.

The figure twitched, and finally got the feeling of his nose back into place. The figure was tall, a bit taller than most Americans, with a muscular build, even obvious from under the dark clothing he wore. The clothing was tough; a form-fitting, long-sleeved black shirt, black gloves, dark, rugged jeans, and dark brown combat boots that held two straps on both sides, the long, metal hilt of two knives evident in the straps. A studded belt was wrapped around his waist, and it held numerous, compact black pouches on each loop; although, what was in the pouches, was a mystery.

 The man's face held the scruffy remains of a shaven beard, and his close-cutted, dark blonde hair blended in well with his surroundings. In his gloved right fist, he held a razor-sharp, jagged combat knife, the silver metal of the knife not even glinting in the moonlight, while, in his right hand, a dark black pistol was evident. His eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses, and although most would make a snarky, annoying joke about wearing sunglasses at night, these sunglasses obviously had multiple uses, the most prominent one being that it allowed him to see as clear as day, even in the night. Not to mention that it hid his eyes, allowing him to stare and focus on things/people without anyone seeing.

The man gripped his combat knife tighter, while his finger edged over the trigger of his pistol. He took a glance at the motorcycle, practically invisible in the darkness, hidden nearby. Without a second thought, he silently dashed into the cave.

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Werewolves were strong beings, but wild, unrefined...and generally unskilled. Dimitri cleanly slammed a stone-hard fore-arm against the snarling wolf's swing, his arm wrapping around the other beast's arm, while his knife-hand darted forward, the silver, razor-sharp blade easily tearing through fur and flesh to reach deep within the beast's heart. Kicking it away, the Russian Hunter watched dispassionately as the beastial wolf slowly formed back into the dead, wild form of a hairy, dirty man. This pack of wolves, hidden in the forest and mountains near Greyville, was one of the disgusting packs that preyed on innocent humans for no reason, other than their maddening lust for food, glory, and worthlessness. All around him, in one of the cave's stony areas, the bodies of gutted, stabbed, and generally dead werewolves littered the floor. Gas was slick on the stone ground, and as Dimitri began to walk away, one hand in his pocket, the Hunter flicked his cigarette - a guilty, once a month pleasure - and sped up slightly as it landed in the gas.

The rev of a sleek motorcycle blasted through the mountains, as the cave collapsed in on itself, the fire having spread to take over the rocky maze.