You walk over to Max, filled with a faint trepidation at the prospect of approaching someone who could, with the minimum of difficulty and effort, rip your head clean off your shoulders. The other werewolves direct some cold glances at you, but none of them actually say anything.
Max's head turns to regard you as you draw nearer, and the glint in them is enough to make you hesitate.
"Human," he says, a hint of a growl in his voice. "Make yourself useful and sit on my back. I could use some dead weight."
Feeling extremely uncertain about this new request, you obey, sitting down on the werewolf's back as it rises and falls with all the smooth, regular motion of a machine.
After a few ascents and returns, it seems only appropriate to make conversation.
"So," you say, as the scenery dips and rises by turns, "how come so many werewolves are adverts for gym memberships and protein powder? I've always wondered."
Max chuckles, and you feel the vibration of his amusement pass straight through you. "It's part of our culture, little human. The strong protect the weak, and the weak are led by the strong. So we all aspire towards strength, for the responsibility and the honor. For a werewolf, strength is all there is."