This forest was as good as home to Van. She knew it well - where the neighbors made their dens, the movements of the deer, where the safe spots were, and more. This crisp early spring night was hers, as it had been for five years running now, and the hunting was good. A dirty gold shape, big as a bear, darted between the trees and crashed into the underbrush in chase, the buck ahead of her giving a distressed snort in its panic to get away, white tail flashing as it bounded over a fallen log.
She wasn't baying, or even growling at this point, so focused on the hunt she was that all she could do was exhilarate. The hunt was on. Her prey was canny - he was a wily old deer, and he'd learned a good many tricks at evading a predator, but he'd never faced a werewolf before. She didn't even fall for the triple sideways, and he was proud of that one! He knew it as soon as he had looked around behind the stump.
She was right behind him.
Death came with a crack and a half-expressed curse, and the buck fell lifeless at Van's paws, neck snapped neatly with her paw, the buck's head lolling over his back. Van leaned down, scooping the dying buck's head into her mouth and ending it, almost gently, snuffing the life from the wily old shell. The stink of him, the smell of the sweat and blood, it was intoxicating, but that was the bargain - lose the chase, become the meal, and fair was fair. He was her's now.
She roared - a sound long, long before words, from an ancient part of her that sniffed the wind and felt the earth move beneath her, something the late man heard just before he became 'late'. Then, she changed.
It was almost silken, how her skin shifted and moved as muscle and bone shifted fluidly inside her body. Pain came, but it was brief, like stepping on a tack or getting a leg cramp. The beast pressed in upon itself, and the girl came loose with a gasp, pale skin reddened with exertion and steaming in the cold night air, like the corpse of her take for the night.
As she hefted the body, she took up an old Elven melody - sang it very softly under her breath as her bare flesh glistened in the gibbous half-moon's light like pale silver, glistening red blood coating her face and hands and dribbling down her front not insignificantly.
It was a short walk to her stash, a little corner of masonry that was out of the wind and rain (when there was any). A quick dip in a nearby stream saw her face and body cleaned, and as she dressed... she heard the howl.
Van froze. One... two... four... seven. Seven wolves. Seven wolves knew she was here, and they were not. happy. Now... it has to be said - one wolf, two, maybe three or four, that's nothing to a werewolf who knows their business. But more than that... even four was enough to hurt her, the kind of hurt that lasted hours before it healed, but five, or more... could overhwelm even her, and she knew it. Their baying and howling made no mystery of their intentions. She needed shelter tonight - the forest wouldn't be her friend.
