The moon hung full and heavy over the Black Forest. In a clearing, two beasts met.
One was a Werewolf—a cursed man, hunched and howling in pain as his bones rearranged. Lunar Transfiguration. He fought his own nature as much as the enemy.
The other was a Werwolf—the ancient Germanic original. It didn't howl in pain. It shifted with fluid, practiced ease. It stood taller, its fur coarser, its eyes intelligent and cruel. Predator's Nose. It didn't smell like a sick man; it smelled like old blood and iron.
The Original Strain
The Werewolf charged, swipe and bite fueled by rage. Regenerative Hide.
The Werwolf met the charge with silence. It blocked, bit, and tore.
They traded wounds that would kill a mortal instantly. Both healed, flesh knitting back together in seconds. But the Werewolf began to tire. The man inside was exhausting the beast.
The Werwolf did not tire. Harrowing Regeneration. Its curse was pure.
Sensing the fatigue, the Elder Beast lunged. It didn't go for a scratch; it clamped its massive jaws onto the Werewolf's neck and shook. The spine snapped with a sound like a gunshot. The Werewolf fell, shifting back into a broken man. The Werwolf stood over him, tore out the throat for good measure, and trotted into the dark, the undisputed alpha of the night.