.
A low, wet growl vibrated through the air.
I spun around, pulling the boy behind me. At first, I saw nothing but the swaying grain.
Then, a figure stepped into the clearing.
It looked like a man, or it had once. It stood on two legs, but its spine was arched into a permanent, bent curve.
Its skin was a patchwork of mangled fur and grey, translucent flesh, stretched tight over a frame that was far too large.
Its eyes were milky cataracts, devoid of reason, and its fingers ended in jagged, yellowed claws that scraped against its own thighs.
"Gwallo," I breathed.
I had heard the stories. Gwallo were the "corrupted" werewolves who had lost their minds to the madness of the wild.
Without a pack or family, they were husks of wolves, retaining a twisted human shape but driven by a hunger that never ended.
Usually, they were solitary scavengers, driven off by the pack's borders, too dangerous to kill but too broken to organize.
