Daytime werewolf

Writing game 3: The story writer

As far as he knew he still had a long way to go. He looked down the valley in front of him and could just barely make out the village through the morning fog. He thought as he did every morning: Not again - but there was nothing he could do about it.

The logs from last night’s campfire were nothing but burnt out coals by now, but there was a distinct burnt smell in the air. He was happy however – full from the delightful meal he enjoyed last night. He had caught a wolf in close combat at noon. After an intense battle he had managed to give it the kiss of death – teeth boring into its neck, just as he could have feared it would have done to him.

At least he was enough of a man to have roasted the raw meat on the fire once the moon was seen and he morphed, but his inner animal still made him devour instead of eat, and it sure was not a pretty sight for anyone with a craving for sophistication. He never did fit into the human world – no surprise. None of the werewolfs did.