Crom maintained his composure even as the wolf clutched his throat tighter and tighter. He continued twisting all the while, until the wolf grabbed his wrist. Soah leaned forward, bearing his teeth at the soldier, as if to show he could still kill him. Crom's cold stare didn't break. As the wolf leaned forward, Crom's free hand fell to his side, gripping the hilt of his knife. Certainly, the wolf was still capable of killing the mercenary, but not before a six inch blade pierced it's eye. The preparation was for naught. Soah pulled himself from the blade and slumped against a nearby tree, slowly returning to his human form. Crom stood for a moment in silence, his bloodied blade still held out in front of him. He looked around. The snow was stained with blood. he threw a disinterested glance at his shoulder. The wound was quite bad, not something to be ignored, but he had no energy left. He fell to his knees, the snow fell into his shaggy, sweat-stained hair. He laid his sword on the ground in front of him. It was stained with the dark red blood of the werewolf. He looked across the clearing to his adversary. He had survived the fight, but only through his lycanthropy. Crom couldn't lie, the fight was harder than anything he'd faced in years, and among the most the dangerous fights he'd ever been in. He looked over to his flask, which lay in the snow beside him. He gripped the wooden container and took a deep drought. He then sighed with disappointment and poured a splash of it into his wound. He didn't even wince at the pain. Honestly, he was more disappointed that he had so little of the alcohol left. He took another sip and corked the flask before falling back into a sitting position, still apparently unable to speak.