The tavern patrons watched with bated breath as Clovis hunched forward, a low, guttural growl rumbling from deep within his chest. Drave, eyes locked on the werewolf, took a cautious step back, tensing as he anticipated the attack. Suddenly, with a feral snarl, Clovis lunged forward on all fours, his massive form crashing across the tavern floor. His claws scraped against the wood as he closed the distance with alarming speed, his right arm rearing back, ready to strike.
Drave's reflexes kicked in at the last second. He dodged, slipping past the swipe of Clovis's claws by a hair's breadth. In a fluid motion, he flicked his wand, unleashing a fiery bolt that struck Clovis square in the face. The werewolf recoiled with a sharp yelp, smoke rising as patches of fur singed, leaving his face slightly burned but far from deterred.
"Calm down, you damn dog!" Drave shouted, his frustration boiling over as he swung a punch at Clovis's ear. It was a futile gesture; the blow barely registered on the towering beast, but Drave needed to vent. Clovis growled in response, slashing at Drave's legs with his left claws. Drave barely dodged, his lower robes catching on the claws and tearing in the process.
"Do you know how expensive this is?!" Drave exclaimed, glaring at the werewolf, but before he could get another word in, Clovis lunged again—this time jaws open, aiming for Drave's head. Drave barely leaned back in time, the werewolf's snapping maw closing with a sharp click just inches from his face.
"Give me some breathing room!" Drave snapped, flicking his wand upward. The ground beneath Clovis rumbled, and a stone pillar erupted from the floor, smashing into Clovis's jaw with a bone-rattling crack, sending the werewolf sprawling backward. Clovis hit the ground with a heavy thud, his jaw hanging at an unnatural angle, fragments of bone visible.
The people hiding behind tables and barrels let out a collective cheer, thinking the mage had finally stopped the rampaging werewolf.
But Drave wasn't celebrating. *They're cheering, but...* he thought grimly, watching as Clovis slowly stood back up. The cheers died as quickly as they had begun. The werewolf's wounds began knitting themselves together, bones snapping back into place, fur regrowing over the burned patches. Within moments, Clovis was as whole as ever, his predatory gaze fixed on Drave once more.
*Of course. He's a werewolf—none of what I did is going to stick,* Drave thought, his eyes darting around the room, searching for something in particular. From the corner of his eye, he spotted something on the ground—*That would work.* But before he could make a move, Clovis was upon him again.
Clovis's claws sliced through the air, each swipe faster and more vicious than the last. Each swipe came faster than the last, and though no ordinary person could have dodged such ferocity, Drave's reflexes, honed through years of experience, kept him barely ahead of the werewolf's strikes. Drave dodged the first, ducking just under the razor-sharp claws that whistled past his head. Another swipe came immediately after, and he twisted his body to the side, the werewolf's claws grazing the fabric of his robe. *Too close.* Clovis slashed again, and Drave barely managed to leap backward, landing with a stumble but keeping his footing. His eyes flickered toward the object he was slowly moving toward.
Clovis growled, frustration building as his relentless attacks failed to connect. The werewolf's movements were wild, uncoordinated—a result of his drunken state. If he had been sober and in full control, using calculated strikes instead of blind aggression, Drave knew he wouldn't have lasted this long. He'd have been torn apart within seconds.
Drave's breath came in heavy gasps, each dodge draining his energy. Sweat dripped down his face as he narrowly avoided another clawed slash, his back now dangerously close to the tavern wall. He could feel the strain in his limbs, the exhaustion setting in from repeatedly evading the powerful werewolf's attacks. *Just a little bit more...* he thought, edging closer to the item on the floor.
Then, with one final dodge, Drave threw himself backward to avoid Clovis's supernatural slaying claws, the sharp talons missing him by mere inches. He crashed onto the tavern floor with a thud, pain jolting up his spine as he landed on his back. Before he could scramble to his feet, Clovis was already upon him, towering over him with a snarl. The werewolf's growl reverberated through the tavern as he raised his right arm, claws poised to deliver a killing blow.
The bystanders gasped, believing this was the end for Drave. But just as Clovis's claws came down, Drave jabbed something into the werewolf's stomach with all his strength. Clovis let out a pained, guttural howl, his body recoiling in shock.
"Sorry, buddy, had to do it," Drave grunted, shoving the massive werewolf off him with surprising ease. Clovis staggered back, clutching his stomach, pain rippling through his body.
Drave sat up, panting, and held up the object in his hand—a silver fork, gleaming with blood. "Had to stab you with this," he said, waving the fork for the crowd to see. The tension in the room shifted as realization dawned on the bystanders. Silver—the bane of any werewolf.
Clovis collapsed to one knee, his hulking form trembling with pain as the silver sapped his strength. Drave walked over, exhaustion etched across his face, and kneeled beside the wounded werewolf. "But you're a big boy. You'll be fine," he muttered, swishing his wand one last time. A pillar of stone shot up from the floor, striking Clovis in the head—not as powerful as the one before, but just powerful enough to knock the weakened werewolf out cold. The werewolf slumped to the ground, unconscious.
Drave exhaled deeply and dropped onto the floor beside the defeated werewolf, too tired to care about anything else. The tavern erupted in cheers again, but Drave simply stared at the ceiling, muttering to himself, "Worst break ever."