Fendros' life was not one free of particularly vivid dreams. Even as far as a lycanthropic nightmares took him, his own experiences filled his nights with strong recollections of terrible moments. Even the one he found himself in now.

Only this was not like those dreams. It was still. Peaceful, even. And he felt an conscious awareness the likes of which was usually overpowered by dreaming.

He nudged at the werewolf corpse with his boot. It was heavy and dead. He felt his face and found his facial hair and marks of age missing. He was at a loss. A dreadful loss missing his pack.

And the urge was there, guiding his eyes and his feet. He found his sword on the ground nearby. His family sword he had given Rhazii to take care of. Holding it tightly, he cautiously headed into the forest.