The half-moon is a perfect half-circle tonight, brighter than the Milky Way, which wanders across the heavens from the eastern forests down to the western horizon, where the lights of Buffalo glow an angry, ugly red.
You are a force of justice and balance. Werewolves, you know, are not balanced creatures. They are living weapons, instruments of brutal retribution, fueled by Rage. Every moment is painful for you, because every moment you are forced to think, to consider. To find the middle way between mad fury and paralyzed mystification. The struggle is endless.
But you know what to do here. You are philodox, half-moon, auspice of judgment and wisdom. You have judged the abomination below, and now you need only carry out the sentence.
The ice wind shifts and the Bane steps toward the trees, its outline breaking apart as its cloud of flies rises up. You smell the others—Clay and Scarper and Black Tarn—but they're not here yet, and the Bane might still escape into the trackless forest. But you've planned for this moment even before you shook down that dealer for information, and you've already taken on the ideal form…
Homid. I still wear my regular human shape—ideal for luring a monster into the traps I've already laid.
Glabro, the bestial near-human. I carry a bow, and this form's great strength and speed turns the archaic weapon into an instrument of swift death.
Crinos. The ultimate war-form, an incarnation of carnage and slaughter.
Hispo, the titan-wolf. So huge and powerful that I can crash through those woods and run this Bane down with my greater stamina.
Lupus, the wolf. A surprise for any Bane that expects me to use one of my supernatural forms, small enough that I'll have to dodge and weave…and lure this Bane right where I want it.
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