You hit him at a full run, teeth-first, fangs ripping through his coat and sinking into flesh. Even dying, he keeps fighting: he abandons the rifle and yanks a KA-BAR fighting knife from a quick-draw holster. This is where it gets dangerous, but you twist and yank, shredding his throat even as you twist away from the blade, then you let go.
Because you know it's over.
This guy doesn't, though. He gets up, blood spilling blackly down his chest, confusedly fumbles between rifle and knife for a moment…then topples face-down into the snow. He'll bleed out in a minute or so.
Then the horse stands up on two broken legs and its black eyes fix on you.
"You guessed wrong, little wolf," it says through bloody lips. And then its incisors lengthen, and it springs for you.
Where are the others? No matter. No more "little wolf," no more tricks. You shift instinctively into your titan-wolf form, the Hispo, tripling your weight as your eyes water and your heart pounds with the exertion of the metamorphosis.
So far, everything had gone according to plan, just as you had practiced a hundred times. But now you're forced to think on the fly as you confront the real threat, this mangled horse-thing. You taste blood in your mouth, hear your frightened breath…now it's for real. No mistakes.
Even in this larger form, I'm quick enough to dodge, weave, and fall back until this Bane makes a mistake.
I continue to rely on stealth and cunning, disappearing into the undergrowth and then striking from the shadows.
I'm hearty enough to shapeshift into my war form before the monster reaches me…and tear it apart.
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