Thread: RP Done

RE Me and Ryees - Werewolves aren't all the same. Ravendale was hardly the sprawling metropolis he was familiar with working within, a detail that Isaac found himself pleased with. A smaller town meant less space, less time, and less resources wasted. Inn rooms added up quickly for a five person coven, so every day they didn't have to spend in town was a blessing. So they booked their room, spent a day getting the feel of the town, then began their scouting. The edge of the wood butted right up against the south edge of the town, and that was where they began. Steel traps were not safe in a town where the folk used the woods as means of travel, and therefore had to be abandoned in favor of simple snares. Bell traps were acceptable, but log hoist traps would leave some poor child hanging from branches and also had to be forgone. In place of the missing traps, old fashioned footwork and scouting would be the replacement. Some days passed in quiet one early morning, though, Horace rapped at Isaac's door with the urgent tapping of alarm. Werewolf, was all he said when Isaac cracked his door, and it was all he needed to say. Isaac threw his gear on, snatched up a roll and hunk of salt pork, and fled to the woods. A bell trap was swinging from its anchor, jingling loudly in the quiet of the morning stillness. Tracks were easy to find, leading Isaac and Horace deep into the woods. Morning light filtered dimly through the cracks afforded by the thick canopy, casting faint shadows into the hollows of trees and bushes as they stealthily made their way through the brush. The telltale signs of a wolf were everywhere carcasses of small prey, scratch marks at the bases of trees, and the distinctive pattern of prints left by the paws of a wolf that thought like a man. All at once the morning silence shattered as Horace let out a stressed shout. Isaac barely had time to think about it before he let out his own panicked grunt as snapping jaws flashed past his face had Horace not called out his warning, those jaws would have stolen his head. The wolf flew past him in its lunge, flopping onto the forest floor at it misjudged its trajectory. Practiced motions brought Isaac's crossbow to bear and loosed the heavy bolt into its flank. The shot struck true and grazed through muscles and organs not designed to be pierced the wolf fell dead after only a few seconds of writhing. But his victory was short-lived as the sound of another set of pounding paws reached his ears. But that pounding was less alarming than the sound disappearing. Isaac dove aside as a second wolf launched through the space he so recently occupied. Barely a moment passed before the wolf had corrected its course, giving him only seconds to flip over and draw the shorter blade from his belt before it was on him. A practiced kick as the beast lunged again sent it spinning aside, and he rolled to his feet. Without a bolt in his crossbow, the stout short sword on his hip and the knife he now wielded were his only defense. He drew that sword and shifted it to his strong hand, sheathing the knife in favor of having one free hand. The wolf circled him slowly, judging, weighing, considering, visibly trying to case his openings. Long hours of training and a dozen or more experiences hunting saw Isaac leave little by way of vulnerability so caution was thrown to the wind as the wolf decided to instead rely in its regenerative ability. It snarled as it rushed him head on. Isaac tried to pivot aside, but seeing its friend so easily felled, the canine was ready for his dodging. Its rear end swung aside and it checked him with its full weight, knocking the air from his lungs and sending him flopping onto his back. A quick arm bar against the beast's throat kept snapping jaws from closing around his own windpipe. Struggling against the beast was enough of a chore on its own, making escape a grimly dark glimmer of fading hope.