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[sub]"All wise men fear the moonlight."
- [i]Inquisitor Kyrgiz[/i][/sub]

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And there it was, materializing in the light of the roaring bonfire as it sprang forth from the darkness beyond; the wolfman. Its deep growl escalated into a bloodcurdling roar while it gathered speed and went straight for Gregor. The inquisitor barely had time to dive out of the way of the creature's pounce and could only make out the most glaring of details; large fangs slathered with drool, dark claws red with blood and thick, powerful arms. Gregor dropped into a roll as soon as he hit the forest floor, his right hand's iron grip on the hilt of his sword, throwing his hat clear of his head and into the night. He sprang to his feet in a single, fluid, practiced motion as the werewolf barreled past him and skidded through the bonfire, scattering glowing embers and a shower of sparks everywhere. "Get back!" the inquisitor yelled at Loka and raised his blade in a defensive stance. 

Unharmed, the werewolf rose to its full height, illuminated from all sides by the diffuse remnants of the fire. Gregor could see it clearly now. Tall, heavy, black, bristling with  blood-wet fur and rippling with unnatural muscle. Wicked, hooked claws. Fangs the size of his fingers. A snarling wolf's head on strong, broad shoulders. Maddened eyes alive with light. Absurdly, Gregor was reminded of one of his lessons at the Academia and a snippet of his teacher's words echoed in his ears, lifted from a distant past; [i]"They are also known as the Gravedigger's hounds..."[/i]

Gregor felt the rush of adrenaline surge through his body and welcomed it. His muscles tensed and his heart raced as the werewolf approached, slowly this time, adapting to Gregor's agility. The inquisitor thought back to the last time he had faced off against a werewolf. He had been able to get the drop on it then and felled it with a single blow from behind. Now, the element of surprise was lost entirely, and it seemed like Gregor would have to duel the wolfman. It was a dangerous game for both of them. The werewolf's claws were strong enough to rip through leather, skin, flesh and bone like a hot knife through butter, and they carried the curse with them. That alone was a fate worse than death. Gregor's sword, laced as it was with silver, was like poison to lycanthropes.

The trick, Gregor decided, would be to not get killed and play it safe. The werewolf opened with a sideways swipe that the inquisitor could easily evade and Gregor retaliated with a quick slash that nicked the inside of the werewolf's forearm. The superficial cut sizzled and steamed and the werewolf, yowling, retreated like a child stung by a bee. 

It would not let Gregor get away with that twice.