Cyrus worried all that night about Wiflor eating the werewolf's arm. Ingesting the blood was deadly to most men, but the strongest of those who ingested it would be turned into... not a werewolf... but something worse. They would be shells of their former selves. Ghouls that masqueraded as werewolves. Their minds shot, their eyes wild, and driven mad with pain, they would run amok through the countryside, hunting anything with a heartbeat. Cyrus feared that that was what would become of Wiflor. He would constantly watch her, dreading the moment that the signs would show and he would have to kill her. Not just because her strength with the madness of one of those monsters behind it would make her a danger to many people, but because he didn't want to see her suffer. He had only known her for a week, but he had gotten very attached to her. And if the other night was any indication, she was getting attached to him too. She beat down every one of his attackers. Maybe she was doing it out of survival instinct, but then again, maybe not.<br/><br/>As the hours went on, Cyrus's worries began to wane. She showed no signs of changing... or dying. Even though Cyrus was a little concerned at how weary she seemed, he could chalk that up to the exertion. The days passed on, they passed towns and villages. Civilization got scarcer and scarcer until Atticus mentioned that they wouldn't be passing anymore towns on the last day of their journey. It was cold and snowy this time of year in this part of the country and the group was making camp for the night, conserving their strength to power through the final day tomorrow.