Paul
Hunger. 

 Every. Full. Moon. 

 The insatiable hunger. It maddened Rhurt, no matter how much he tried to suppress the primal need for the flesh of animals and mortals alike. Before the moon pulled itself into the night sky, he had eaten so much that the tavern owner had told him to leave, but Rhurt begged to stay because no matter how much he ate or drank, the creature within still hungered. A glutton, a monster that he could not reason with. 

 How many nights by now? Three? Seven? He was not sure. The change felt fresh and horrible every time it came. Even now, as the burning sensation began to wash over him again, it still felt as though it was the first time all over again. He clawed at his face, tearing through his skin in the hope that the pain would somehow give him control, but he knew it wouldn't because it healed every injury, an insulting gift to he who wanted to die. 

 Rhurt had gone deep into the forest, away from the towns and villages, away from the children that had run at his side as he lumbered through the streets. They were innocent and did not deserve to see the monster that lurked within, but he feared they were not safe even though he had gone a great distance from their homes. 

 He cried out, begging the gods to take his life as his mind fell further and further into the savagery that the lycan thrived on, and like all his prayers they went unanswered. 

 For there was no stopping the hunger. 

 Changed, Rhurt Olol was gone, trapped.

 Now stood the Lycan, a creature of death and rage. 

 He roared, the sound traveling far and wide, a warning to all who heard it. 

 And then he began to run towards the very towns he wished to save from this. Towards the very children who did not deserve to see this monster, he had become.
Maureen
*Whispers*

Rumors of a whelp, feral and unguided, had traveled to Rathiva. News such as this was typically brought to her attention promptly, a fellow lycanthrope tearing across Dasvaz could reflect poorly on the tribe. There was even the chance of them being mistaken as one of her own and threatening tenuous ties. With the most senior of her ranks preparing for the events of spring she set out alone to retrieve the rogue. It wasn't only about risks and inconveniences, as chieftess it was her duty to lead the lost soul. To guide them home, or to the afterlife. 

Rathiva's shift was not painless, but it paled in comparison to her early years. She now embraced it, welcomed the change and the strength it gifted her. The goliath knew which muscles to relax, the way to breathe, the mentality that allowed her to not simply weather the storm but manipulate it to her advantage.

It was a quick transition, one moment the towering pines framed a woman.

A white mane of partially braided hair, muscles that could pull a tree from the ground like one would pluck a flower, eyes as luminous as the glowing moon above. 

The next moment she was a rippling mass of white fur.

Then at last her form settled, like a lake becoming placid once again after being disturbed by a stone.

She pressed through the pine branches, their needles raking against her fur. The smell flooded her senses, rich and welcoming. She dipped beneath them, relaxing in a coiled crouch with a deep inhale. 
_ _

*There.*

While the scent was primarily familiar, that of a lycanthrope, it carried its own distinctive markers. Ones she was unfamiliar with, someone she had not met. The whelp.

A roar ripped through the forest, Rath's head snapped toward its source. Her pointed ears flicked and swiveled, sifting through the sounds of the night. The rhythmic thumping of a beast in full sprint guided her forward. She set all four limbs to work, clawing up dirt as she matched pace. The chieftess was familiar with these lands, it wasn't difficult to deduce his target. 

The distance between them lessened. His mixed emotions made his path more obvious, the scent of lingering fear and fresh rage stung her nose. She caught a glimpse of him through the trees, a blur practically flying over the forest floor, fueled by bloodlust. They would soon cross paths. The earth shook, trembling beneath their weight. Every subtle noise of the night had been silenced. His wild, ragged breaths dotted the air with plumes of chilled breath. The she wolf was steady, calm, controlled. There would be no reasoning with the stranger, not until he shed his wolffish form. Rathiva was left with only one option. 

As the pair at last met, both moving at a seemingly unstoppable sprint, she dug her clawed feet into the rich soil and propelled her massive body into his side. Braced for the consequences of her leap the she wolf snapped at his neck. There was no reason to play nice, he certainly wouldn't.
Paul
In his hunger, and rage, Rhurt did not even realize he was being followed until he was tackled to the ground. Despite being surprised Rhurt managed to save his neck from being bitten off and the two lycans rolled through the dirt in a harsh struggle for dominance until Rhurt managed to kick his opponent off him. He then ran to the side, creating distance between them, facing her with his fangs. 

 Rhurt looked at his attacker with slight surprise, another werewolf, he had never seen one before. He circled slowly, snarling as he did, an attempt of intimidation which he realized was vain. She was more composed than he was, more sound of mind, while all he suffered was noise. The wolf and the Goliath, both were trapped in a battle for control, the Goliath cries for help within, but the wolf is determined to kill all who stand against him. 

 Though the werewolf before him seemed more in control, Rhurt stood tall, for beneath the ash fur was a man who survived countless bouts in the arenas of cruel masters. He roared at her and pounced, hoping to slam her down and viciously tear her neck out.