6

You hit him at maybe forty miles an hour, blast him right out of the saddle and into the trunk of an old maple. That would kill most people, but he keeps fighting, trying to bring the rifle into line. Then you sink your fangs into his chest and he screams as you wrench him back and forth. You've trained for this, and you snap him left right left right, four quick jerks, breaking his neck. You fling the body away and it skids down a slope and across a frozen river, leaving a furrow of pale snow dotted with blood and gore.

You breathe deep, your breath steaming, and glance back at the trail of destruction you've left through the woods. Then you notice the horse is still standing.

"Well done, little wolf," the dead rider's horse says through bloody lips. Then its face splits open as its incisors lengthen, and it hurls itself at you.

So far, everything had gone according to plan, just as you had practiced a hundred times. But now you're forced to think on the fly as you confront the real threat, this mangled horse-thing. You taste blood in your mouth, hear your frightened breath…now it's for real. No mistakes.

I'm quick enough to dodge, weave, and fall back until this Bane makes a mistake.

I rely on stealth and cunning, disappearing into the undergrowth and then striking from the shadows.

I'm hearty enough to shapeshift into my war form before the monster reaches me…and tear it apart.

Next